


Long, Slow Fade

by imperfectkreis



Series: Monuments [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Bottoming from the Top, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Drug Addiction, Grief/Mourning, Grinding, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Service Top, Spanking, Suicidal Thoughts, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 90,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5561593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vishnu Weiss crawls up out of the hill above Sanctuary. He's not the hero the Wasteland needs. He's not a hero at all. But they don't know that. Not yet. But at some point, he starts believing that he can be a good man. A just one.</p><p>(Main pairing M!SoSu/Paladin Danse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There was a lack of a clever title for this first encounter with the world he failed to stop

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello. This story interlocks with my other series [No Document](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5219087/chapters/12034088), which depicts Valentine and MacCready's POVs and their relationship. You shouldn't have to read both series, though there are events in one that may not be described in the other. They should function independently just fine!

Some wounds close. Some.

Others fester and bleed, every movement of muscle, sinew, and bone causing the breach to widen, the expanse of injury to grow. Red and raw. In quiet times, in sleep, in dreams, maybe the trauma tries to mend, edges of flesh stitching back together. The body wants to return to a state where it isn't perpetually seeping. It wants to be whole.

Vishnu Weiss stands in front of the thawing corpse of his husband, not knowing which type of wound his will prove to be.

There's not much to his brief, scattered memory of what transpired. Only that he woke to the sound of Nate screaming, the grotesque tableaux of Nate dying. The man with the scar on his face and someone dressed all in white, like a Christian angel, taking the baby away. He can't remember if Shaun cried too. But he remembers Nate screaming.

Nate’s body stands upright, frozen-hard, drooping slowly as he flash-defrosts. His brown eyes start to dull. There's no tension in his body to hold it straight. The corpse pitches forward, but doesn't fall from the pod.

Weiss takes Nate’s left hand, sliding his wedding ring off his thick finger. He only intends to keep it close, in his pocket or around his neck, if he can find a string or cord. He needs it now more that Nate does. Because Nate is gone. He hopes Nate is with his God. He doesn't know where Shaun is.

Staring at the gold in his palm, Weiss’ chest seizes, making everything around him faint and dull. He never notices the heaviness of his own band, too accustomed to the feel of it on his finger. But it is heavy, dense. Putting Nate’s ring to past his lips, he holds it between his teeth, then pushes it further back onto his tongue. Inert, it tastes like nothing. Weiss thinks about swallowing it down, feeling the scrape of it moving down his throat. Running his tongue against the edges, they are sharper than he expects. Five years, Nate wore this ring. If Weiss had been a better man, he may have worn it for longer.

He wonders if he would choke on it, if he tries to swallow. If he could die that way, esophagus wrapped around Nate’s wedding band. Or, if he doesn't choke, whether Nate would always be inside of him this way, melding in with his internal organs, lodged against his ribs. Every time he breathed, the ring could remind him of his failures.

Weiss swallows his saliva, but not the ring. He doesn't want to die, not really. Reaching into his mouth, he pulls the ring back out. Moist with spit, the ring stares back. 

Going for Nate’s neck, Weiss finds it bare under the collar of his vault suit. Of course, Nate stopped wearing his tags at all upon discharge. Even before, he wouldn't wear them at home, unless Weiss asked, still chasing that hint of perversion that got them both in trouble at 18. Got Weiss kicked out of the army, but he persuaded the inquiry that Nate was blameless.

The morning of the bombs, the tags would have been tucked in with Nate’s socks, top drawer of his dresser. He never intended on putting them on again.

Weiss sits on the vault floor, knees bent, before Nate’s corpse, and undoes the laces to his left boot, pulling the strands through the eyelets, two holes down. He puts the ring on the lace, then threads them through the holes again, knotting the bow firmly in place. This way, he runs no risk of losing the ring from the pocket of his vault suit. 

He doesn't know today's date. Or what will come tomorrow. He knows Nate is dead and Shaun is gone. He knows the vault smells of sparks and decay. The other pods hold nothing but corpses. There’s a sharp pain at his temple. Reaching into his pockets, he finds them empty. Shit. Shit, right. 

“Nate. I love you. I'll find Shaun. I promise,” getting up, he touches the side of Nate’s face. It's cold, but still soft. Nate had shaved that morning. Weiss hadn't yet, waiting for his husband to finish getting ready first. He draws in a ragged breath. “I'll find him.” And in another moment of desperation, he kisses blue-tinged lips, without thinking how morbid he must be.

\--

Codsworth chatters about buffing the floors as Weiss rips through the remains of the bathroom. Fuck, fuck. All the cabinets, or rather, what remains of them, are empty. Broken glass and shattered porcelain. Their house is in shambles; Sanctuary is a ruin. The year is 2287, according to the pipboy now on Weiss’ wrist. Weiss feels ready to vomit and his head is an overripe fruit threatening to burst.

Frantically, he tries the bedroom next. His bedside table is smashed, but he picks through the wood debris. Nothing, just a burnt out copy of Dostoevsky that he had been reading through the night before. There's no tin.

“I remained vigilant, Sir! I promise. But I could not keep my sensors on every “new door” of your home while you were away,” Codsworth apologizes. 

Weiss punches at the nearest wall, hoping for a jolt of pain that will dull the throb in his head. The wall shakes in response, but doesn't break. “I'll have to try the other houses.” He grabs his temple, “shit, shit.” Inside the vault there had been a single tin, two pills, one standard dose. Barely one dose for a man as large as Weiss. But that was three hours ago now, and trying to play kick-the-cockroach climbing out of the vault made Weiss burn through the mentats faster than he would normally. The edges of withdrawal keep closing down on him. 

Searching four houses, he finds one tin. A full one, with the clear sticky tape still intact around the pack, That's twelve pills, six doses. The kind of thing nice, suburban families keep around the house in case they might need it. Emergency use. Not enough for someone like Weiss. Someone like an addict.

Codsworth suggests heading to Concord. That there might be aid there, and people. Yeah, and at least the pharmacy. But fuck, fuck. The world is in ruins and everything has been looted. Two hundred years of broken, while Weiss slept. But Weiss has got to try, because he can't keep his promise to Nate otherwise.

Nate.

Before leaving Sanctuary, there's one last thing. He goes to Nate’s sock drawer, pulling it open, Weiss rifles through the contents. He finds Nate’s tags on a ball chain at the bottom. Pulling them out, Weiss doesn't realize until he has them in his palm that there are two sets tangled together.

LAVENDA  
NATHAN  
834-70-2391  
RH NEGATIVE  
JEWISH

WEISS  
VISHNU  
821-70-1873  
RH NEGATIVE  
NONE

Swallowing, he splits the sets up, putting one tag of his, one of Nate’s, back onto the ball chain. The loose tags he shoves back into the drawer. The chain sits heavy in his pocket as he walks back up the hill to 111. Cigarettes, he's found plenty of cigarettes. He lights one on his way, sticking it between his lips. Before Shaun came, he’d given up smoking. For now, it seems pointless to deny himself. It does enough to calm his nerves. 

He keeps his hands in his pockets, one wrapped around the tin, the other around the tags. Weiss walks all the way back to Nate’s undignified grave. One day, he’ll make it back, take the time to bury his husband. 

The vault is getting warmer. The bodies will start to rot. Unhooking the chain clasp, Weiss steps towards the pod. He slips his hands around Nate’s neck, fastening the clasp before tucking the tags into Nate’s suit, pressed against his chest.

\--

Before he can leave for Concord, Weiss has to be able to defend himself. Without being able to dose, he can barely see straight. There’s this white light at the back of his skull that just won't fade.

He wears Nate’s ring on a leather cord knotted around his neck. Standing at the back of the house that used to be his home, Weiss re-learns to shoot. All he has for practice is a rusty 10mm and a few dozen rounds he swiped from the vault. He shoots, and shoots, his aim only marginally improving. Fifteen years ago, no, two hundred and twenty-five years ago, he wasn't such a terrible shot. But that was with laser and young eyes. That was without this searing pain.

“I'm going, now,” he barks at Codsworth, throwing down the pistol in the dirt.

“But, Sir!” Codsworth floats behind him, the gears inside him obnoxiously loud in the stillness of the setting sun. “It is nearly nightfall. Traveling now would be ill advised. Perhaps in the morning?”

Weiss snaps his head around, ready to tear Codsworth’s spindly arms off, if that's what it takes to get the robot to shut the fuck up. “Wait for what?” He seethes, “there is nothing here for me. I'm going, I'm fucking leaving.”

“Sir, this will always be your home.”

“No. This is not my home,” he bites. He's not sure this ever was his home, even when it was white and blue and red and new. Filled with flowers and smiling children with scraped knees. What idyllic bliss. Even then, Sanctuary wasn't his home. Nate was his home. He'd come here so he and Nate could play fucking house. Because everything was supposed to be perfect now.

Codsworth doesn't follow Weiss over the bridge. Good. Fucking great. Weiss will be fine without the domestic assistant. He’ll stick to the shadows and work his way to Concord. It won't matter that he doesn't have a fucking gun at his hip. And the darkness means he won't be quite so blind.

It should have been him, who died inside the hill. Had Nate lived instead, he wouldn’t have woken crippled. Nate is about done with PT. Nate can shoot, Nate can run, Nate can punch through a fucking wall. Nate’s a big fucking war hero with new legs who just wants to come home and play house-husband rather than putting fucking bullets into fucking Communists. Nate isn’t crippled by a shoddy addiction to pills that were so easy to procure before the bombs fell. Used to buy them at the pharmacy. Made Weiss more alert, more attentive to little details in long rambling cases. 

Nate could. Nate was. Past tense. Fuck.

\--

Dogmeat, the mutt from outside the Red Rocket, trots by Weiss’ right side the whole trip from Concord back to Sanctuary. On his left, Sturges babbles on about the mechanics of turning cars into homes. How to strip the steel as efficiently as possible, getting reasonably sized pieces that can then be pounded out into flat sheets. They work better as roofs than as walls, but as the years tick by, they have to be less and less choosy. 

Garvey, a handsome man with deep lines set into his otherwise young face, leads them onwards. The pace he sets is really the one Mamma Murphy can keep. She’s spry for an old woman, but she is old. Back at the museum, she said she could see Weiss’ future, at least some of the tangled cords of fate. He brushed her off, a little, because he doesn’t believe in fate. He can’t believe in a world where Nate is dead and he’s alive. 

He tries to keep his attention on what Sturges says, offering up enough encouragement so that he’ll keep talking. Weiss likes the way Sturges talks with his hands, his excitement at explaining how joints fit together, the other things he could build if only he had the materials. The projects he had in process before they had to leave Quincy.

“I could find them for you? The materials, I mean,” Weiss takes the cigarette out from between his lips, blowing smoke away from Struges. 

Sturges’ face brightens in the setting sun. He touches against Weiss’ arm, however briefly. “That would really help our efforts to rebuild. If Mama Murphy is right, and Sanctuary is the place for us, we can really make a go at a settlement. Something that will grow and last. I’ll make you a list, once we’re there, of what I’ll need?”

“Of course,” Weiss smiles, brushing the tips of his fingers across Sturges’ bicep. 

\--

“We’ll be quiet,” Weiss presses the words to the side of Sturges’ head, just above his ear. He’s already making his way to the floor, kneeling against the broken floorboards, between Sturges’ legs. 

Sturges’ arms settle on Weiss’ shoulders. Nodding, Sturges exhales. It’s the loudest thing in the room.

They’ve had to split up across Sanctuary to find enough beds with enough ceilings over their heads. Weiss and Sturges are in the living room of the Joinson’s home. Garvey is in the bedroom. Technically, there’s a mattress in the Gibb’s home that Weiss is going to take. But right now, this is where he wants to be, with Sturges’ ass at the edge of the couch, his pants falling open as he tugs at the zipper. 

“You’re just, really beautiful, okay?” And Weiss means that. The world around them is dark, darker than Weiss could have imagined in his old life. But Sturges isn’t. Sturges has dreams and ambition, a plan for what he can accomplish, with the help of others. “Let me take care of you.”

Reaching into Sturges’ pants, he draws out his cock. Half-hard, but lovely all the same. He reaches up to kiss at Sturges’ lips, trying to push back any lingering hesitation. Folding back down onto his long legs, Weiss dips his head forward, throating Sturges’ cock. He doesn’t have to use his hands, planting them instead on Sturges’ still-covered thighs. Digging his nails down, Weiss keeps his mouth soft and wet as he sucks. He hums at the pleasure of it. Of already knowing he’ll make Sturges come. 

Weiss pushes Sturges’ cock down his throat until his nose brushes against dark hair at the root. Sturges lets out a quiet, garbled groan. Hands flying into Weiss’ long hair, twining around dark strands. When Struges pulls, Weiss’ hair comes loose from its tie. Yes, yes. Sturges’ cock is thick around his spread lips, and the vocalized edges of his pleasure are sweet. Weiss bobs and bobs, raking his tongue underneath until Sturges shudders, coming in thick, bitter ropes against the back of Weiss’ palate.

Coming up to kneel, Weiss kisses Sturges fiercely as he can manage, letting cum run from his mouth back into Struges, making him taste himself. He keeps their lips tight until Sturges swallows his own cum. He shudders when he does, arms folding around Weiss’ neck.

Weiss twists their bodies against the couch until he lies atop Sturges’ broader frame. Grinding down onto Sturges’ softening cock, he makes his own desire apparent. He keeps his legs spread around Sturges’ hips, their bodies pressed as close as he can manage. Lips and teeth at Sturges’ more docile body. “Can I put my cock in your mouth?” he whispers, “would you like that?”

Nodding, Sturges starts to shift his weight, trying to get out from under Weiss. Weiss presses his palms flat to Sturges’ shoulders, holding him down. Under his hands, Sturges is still hard and warm. Sturdy, lovely. 

“Stay like this, on your back, okay?”

Even in the darkness, Weiss can make out the quizzical look on Sturges’ face.

“Trust me,” Weiss smiles.

He pulls down the zipper of his vault suit as far as it will go. Struges lifts his hands to Weiss’ chest, dancing fingertips over top of the singlet he wears under the suit. Weiss pulls out his erection, careful to avoid the snag of the zipper, and gives it a few quick strokes to make sure it’s hard. He won’t last for long. 

“Hold on to my hips,” Weiss takes Sturges’ hands from his chest, instead guiding them over his pelvis and curling Sturges’ fingers there. “Squeeze if you can’t breathe, okay? Or if you need me to stop. For any reason.” 

“Okay,” Sturges keeps his hands in place as Weiss moves up his body. 

Positioning his cock over Sturges’ mouth, he angles his hips until he can push inside. The angle isn’t quite right at first, but Struges shifts against the couch, then Weiss does above him, and it’s perfect. Fisting Sturges’ hair in one hand, Weiss starts rocking his hips, fucking into Struges’ open mouth until he starts to gag, then pulling back. He doesn’t push Struges very far, doesn’t test him. But fuck, fuck it feels good. Looking down, he can see Sturges’ wide eyes between his thighs. Weiss pulls again at his hair, looking away. The sight is just too good. 

“Fucking gorgeous,” Weiss pants.

\--

Weiss likes Valentine. He likes him a lot. Smart, attentive, a real problem solver. The four of them: Weiss, Piper, Valentine, and Ellie, spread out across the detective agency, taking up all available chairs, plus Piper perched on the edge of Val’s desk. 

“It has to be Kellogg! So I don’t know what we’re waiting for,” Piper throws her hands up. “We backtrack to Sanctuary grab Weiss’ dog. Get him Kellogg’s scent, follow the trail.”

Val taps off ash. The tray is nearly full. Weiss and Val have been chain smoking through the whole conversation, trying to devise a plan of action that is actually actionable. 

“The guy is the most feared merc in the Commonwealth already. Now we’ve got real evidence that he’s on the Institute payroll. We’re going to need more backup than what we’ve got.”

“Then we get Preston too?” Piper suggests.

Weiss shakes his head, “No, not Garvey. He’s too valuable. Which, by the way, you’re too valuable, Piper, you’re not coming either.”

“Oh like hell, is this your fucked up chivalry again? Because I’ll have you know, I was risking my hide long before you showed up, Blue.” Piper looks about ready to deck him at the suggestion.

They’ve been fooling around, a little, him and Piper. Nothing serious, she knows it, he knows it. But it’s been fun. She’s a petite little thing, just breaking 5’3”. He towers over her, and one finger dipped inside her cunt with a string of lewd suggestions in her ear gets her ludicrously wet. He likes the way she clenches around his fingers when she comes. Likes how quickly she took to sticking her fingers inside of him too. He won’t put his cock in her, though. Weiss hasn’t seen a fucking condom since he crawled out of the hill. And he would never put her at risk that way. He’ll lick her pussy until she screams. He’ll ask her to put three fingers into him while he’s up on all fours, ass in the air. But no, he won’t stick his cock in her. She thinks it’s chivalry. He thinks it’s practical. 

“It’s not that. We need you tracking additional leads while we work on Kellogg. First and foremost, this is sounding like Val and I need to go find a merc. You know, combat support.” It’s been weeks, but Weiss is no more assured of his own battle prowess. Sure, he’s not dead, and he’s come up with a combination of tossed together ideas (and a laser pistol) that he can execute, given his middling skill. It’s not pretty, but it works. Won’t work against someone like Kellogg, though. “We’ll find the merc. But Piper, I need you to find us more leads, if Dogmeat can’t do this.”

Val has a habit of smoking his sticks all the way down to the filter. Weiss can’t do that. He puts his out just as soon as the heat starts reaching his fingertips. 

“We can’t just bring in a gun for hire on this, Weiss,” Val argues. “We need to make sure they can be trusted.”

“Okay, okay,” Weiss skitters, nodding. “So, Piper, how about you look for something, a test. We look for the merc, you look for a trial. Val will make the call on whether or not the merc will work? Yeah?”

Piper frowns, “Fine.”


	2. Impending Disasters that Come without Warning

This is his responsibility. 

Danse draws breath, waiting for the inevitable fall. This mission into the Commonwealth has been a series of failures. But he has no choice but to crawl to his feet, to stand up, to fail again. And again. Until no one is left standing. Because he will not, he refuses, to just roll over and die. He may fight against impossible odds, and fail. But he cannot concede to do nothing.

Danse draws breath, telling Knight Rhys and Scribe Haylen what they must do. The pack of supermutants are fast approaching their position at the station. If they do not strike first, they will be overwhelmed. They will die. Danse loads his laser rifle, running his fingers along the stock. 

“Understood,” Rhys is a good soldier. Upright, loyal. He believes in the Brotherhood, so he believes in Paladin Danse. It is not very clear if he believes in Danse as a man. But that is not relevant to this mission. 

Haylen says nothing, but checks her pistol. It would be better if she could fire a heavier weapon. But, until recently, she was a non-combatant. She was brought into the fold for her mind, her skill with stimpaks, stitches, and processing huge amounts of information, not because she can handle the recoil on a rifle. If Danse had been better at his role, she would not have to adopt this one.

Swinging the laser rifle onto his back, Danse picks up the minigun, its imposing weight settled in the lobby. He is the only one left trained for power armor. The only one who can lift and fire the gun. 

Danse will break through the doors first, take the brunt of the supermutants’ attacks. Vicious, vile beings. Horrific, scarred, without their minds. Without their humanity. Danse isn’t afraid. No, he’s no more afraid of mutants than he would be a pack of feral dogs. They are not so different. His knuckles turn white around his gun. “I will go on the count of three. One, two-”

Laughter. 

On the other side of the door, someone is laughing. Not the deep, stinging shrieks the mutants produce when they rip a man limb from limb. No, not that morbid glee. But human elation. Over top of the laughter, the mutants are still loud. Shouting and screaming. “Death to all humans! We will inherit the earth!” But out among them is a man, and he is laughing.

“Three!” Danse rushes, throwing open the doors to the police station. If a man was there, Danse cannot see him anymore. Maybe he was only a figment of Danse’s imagination. But there is a mutant already dead at the steps, shot through with laser fire. 

Then Danse sees it, the shimmer of bending light that ghosts past him. And the specter laughs, “We were starting to think this place was deserted!”

From the corner of the station's fortifications, a sniper rifle fires, catching the next approaching mutant, who is swinging a nail board over its bloated head, in the throat. The bullet cracks into the mutant’s spine, severing its cord. Heavily, it drops to the floor, the board skittering across the pavement with the remnants of momentum. The man holding the sniper rifle, at least, Danse thinks it is a man, but he’s small, with his back to Danse, trains his gun on the next target. 

The stealthed man speaks again, from somewhere just behind Danse. “Going to join the party?” Existing stealth, the man surprises Danse. He’s tall, almost as tall as Danse is in the T-60 suit. Not a scrap of armor on him, just a vault suit with “111” stitched across his back, a pipboy on his wrist, and a smile on his lips. He wears his black hair long, tied back, falling against the light copper of his neck.

Danse can't pay any more attention to the stranger. Not right now. He's human and he's killing mutants, that's all Danse really needs to know at the moment. Instead, he turns his focus back to the mutants closing down. He opens fire with the minigun. Now it seems like overkill, using the hulking weapon. What seemed like impossible odds are now in their favor, now that it's six against the mutants, instead of three.

The third stranger runs up the steps of the station, his face hidden under a brimmed hat. He holds a laser rifle in both hands, shouting curses. “Weiss! You fucking asshole!”

Weiss, presumably Weiss, laughs, still too close to Danse’s ear. “You wouldn't want me any other way, Val!”

Val skids to a stop, turning sharply on his heels and aiming his rifle at the closest mutant, unloading half a dozen shots right into his torso. His hat falls off, he curses. Danse needs a second look. His scalp is silvery, a dull metallic. Lower, along his neck, a patch of skin is missing, tarnished brown at the edge of the wound.

Synth. Val is a synth. And Danse thinks again about Weiss, who moves like a manic ghost. And the small one still hidden behind the sandbags and wire, who can shoot a mutant in the neck at fifty yards. Just because Val is the only one who looks like a synth, doesn't mean the others aren't either.

Rhys shouts, he's taken a bullet to the torso. Running on instinct, no doubt, Haylen stops shooting and reaches for her pack instead, pulling out a stim and forceps to pull the bullet. Danse doesn't shout at her to stop, the rest of them can whittle down the mutants’ numbers. 

The last mutant goes down, Weiss running his pistol dry, until the body is nothing but iridescent ash against the pavement. At the last moment, he kicks at the pile with his boot, as if it's something strange to be beheld.

“So, right, hell of an introduction,” Weiss looks up from the ash pile. And Danse sees something behind his eyes shift, like this is the first time Weiss has actually got a good look at him. He doesn't know what it is. Only now, Weiss looks at him like he's something strange. But Weiss is the odd one. Danse is perfectly ordinary. “Um,” Weiss sticks his hands into the pockets of his suit, then pulls one out again, offering it to Danse. “I'm Vishnu Weiss.”

Danse doesn't reply, looking instead for any observable evidence that Weiss may be a synth. He does eventually take Weiss’ hand, shaking it firmly.

“Right, and this is Nick Valentine,” he nods towards the synth, who is picking its hat up off the ground. “And MacCready.” The small man jogs up to meet the rest of the group, sniper rifle swung onto his back.

Danse doesn't think the two other men are synths. But if they weren't, why are they so comfortable traveling with such an obvious one? MacCready looks at him with a particular mixture of fear and something else. His eyes keep tracking to the insignia on Danse’s armor. 

“I'm Paladin Danse,” he starts, “This is Scribe Haylen.” She doesn't look up, still patching Rhys. He looks groggy, but that may simply be the med-x Haylen uses to dull the pain. She is very good at what she does, and Danse trusts her implicitly, even if her belief in the Brotherhood is not yet solidified. She has always been honest with him on that account. “And Knight Rhys.”

“Great, great, awesome,” Weiss tilts back on his heels. His limbs are long, but he's not particularly built. Something about him is otherworldly, out of place. Brown eyes, black stubble, and a smile that won't fade. Danse can't really look away.

Danse makes his voice deep, commanding, “We should go inside.”

“Okay,” Weiss makes to follow.

“Not the synth,” Danse holds out his hand to stop Valentine.

Weiss shakes his head, “What? That's stupid. Valentine is a great guy. Great.”

“The Institute…” Danse starts.

“Tossed me in the fucking trash,” Valentine shrugs his shoulders. How can he be so casual, so unafraid? The Brotherhood has never had a presence in the Commonwealth, but the synth should at least have the decency to hide himself, try and conceal his nature. Somehow, his openness on the matter is grotesque. Danse has to look away.

“So, let him come,” Weiss lights a cigarette then holds the door open for Haylen to help Rhys back inside. He puffs on it, before blowing smoke over his shoulder. “Anything you tell me, I'm just going to tell him anyway. He's my partner.” 

Danse doesn't understand what Weiss means.

\--

“You seem to know how to handle yourself in a firefight,” Danse observes. 

Inside the police station, he stands in his armor. Weiss leans against the edge of one of the intact desks, his feet slightly spread, heels dug in against the floor. He's taken the time to change out of s grime-caked vault suit and into a pair of jeans. His white shirt clings tightly to his shoulders, the only place he seems broad enough in proportion to his height. Around his neck hangs a leather cord, whatever pendant he wears tucked into his shirt.

When Weiss is not fiddling with his cigarette, his hands go back into his pockets. The yellowed overhead lighting makes him look almost ill.

“Not as well as you handle yourself, Danse.”

Danse grunts. He's been training with the Brotherhood for years. Proper battle tactics, running scenarios, trying to anticipate enemy moves. It's not surprising that he would be above average in combat, even if his leadership has not always gone as planned. 

“In any case,” Danse starts. “We’ve been on our reconnaissance mission now for months. Honestly, our numbers have been depleted, and I could use the manpower.” 

It makes Danse’s stomach churn, asking for help like this. But Rhys is injured and Haylen must keep watch of the station. His options are limited and Weiss just keeps on smiling. Weiss pushes himself up off the desk, snuffing out his cigarette in an old ashtray. Standing almost chest to chest with Danse, Weiss cants one hip forward. It makes Danse uncomfortable, their proximity. When Weiss breaths, his chest nearly bumps into Danse’s armor.

“Alright, sure. We can help,” Weiss offers without hesitation, asking nothing in return. “What is it you need?

“The nearby metro station is infested with ghouls. They need to be eradicated. As soon as possible.”

Weiss scratches his temple, “Feral, right?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” Weiss changes the angle of his hips again, a clear challenge. Danse is careful not to step back. The man isn't going to fight him. He's not. But then why is Danse’s first reaction to flee? It doesn't make sense. 

“Yes,” he assures, “they are feral.”

That satisfies Weiss well enough. “You're coming with us, right? I mean, if you're thinking of recruiting me, you must want to see me work?” Weiss reaches out, brushing his fingers against Danse’s right arm. His finger dips into one of the most obvious dents there. Danse hasn't had the opportunity to make repairs in over a month.

“Yes,” Danse nods, “I will come with you.”

Weiss smiles, shuffles his feet again, so one of his feet is just between both of Danse’s. Danse has never seen a grown man who fidgets so much, just an endless stream of badly bound energy. Threatening to burst. But discipline, the kind the Brotherhood can teach, would help Weiss a great deal. He'd be a good soldier.

“I was in the army once, you know?” Weiss offers. From his pack, he pulls a chest plate. While he fastens it on, he turns away from Danse, showing the long line of his back instead. 

His companions start readying themselves as well. The synth looks at Danse; Danse stares back. He has never seen a synth like Valentine before. The gen 2s look nothing like humans, still hard angles and identical faces. Milk white skin and exposed wires. The gen 3s are supposed to be indistinguishable from humans. Invisible threats within society, waiting to be activated by the Institute, whatever their end-game is. Valentine is neither of these, but a haunting in-between that Danse can't make sense of. 

Valentine leans against the wall, his yellow eyes leaving Danse’s and flicking back to MacCready’s. He listens attentively to what the sniper says, a soft smile on his lips. Danse wants to know what they are saying. He worries it is about him.

“Ready?” Weiss claps his hand on the shoulder of Danse’s armor.

“Yes,” Danse looks away. “Let's head out.”

\--

Impossible. The two men and the synth are impossible. MacCready fancies himself a tactician, but he's really a nightmare, scrambling on top of a destroyed subway car and taking pot-shots at ghouls. Weiss has disappeared into the pack, a stealthboy on one wrist and a laser pistol in his hand. Danse can barely tell where Weiss is, even when ghouls stumble back, laser burns against their chests. The synth cleans up the stragglers as they try to stumble from the makeshift death trap around Weiss’ invisible form.

In patches and stutters, the ghouls fall into broken heaps. 

They're impossible, but they win. Messily, horrifically, recklessly. But they win. And when Weiss becomes visible again, Danse’s first instinct is to correct him. Their plan could have gotten Weiss killed. But he is alive, laughing, his heart pounding out of his chest. And his utter joy makes something clench inside of Danse’s ribs too.

“Fuck, oh, fuck me, hah, HAH!” Weiss exclaims. 

Rushing towards Danse, Weiss stops just short of crashing into his chest. Danse braces for impact, two hundred some pounds of exuberance heading straight in his direction. When Weiss stops, just short of throwing his arms around Danse, he finds himself disappointed, rather than relieved.

“Not bad, eh?” Weiss wipes at his forehead, before trailing his hand over his hair, down the length of his short pony-tail. 

Danse draws his lips, trying not to mirror Weiss’ smile. “You said you were military?”

“For a time,” Weiss’ pulse is still racing, threatening to burst through in a bloody mess. His dark lashes flutter closed, touching against Weiss’ skin before opening again. 

\--

Weiss takes off his shirt, oblivious to the fact that Danse watches him. Danse doesn't mean to watch. Only, Weiss rips off his shirt almost as soon as he's through the station doors. MacCready and the synth act as if this is normal behavior, letting Weiss do as he pleases. He takes off his jeans next.

Out of his clothes, Weiss is as lean as Danse had suspected. A small pocket of fat at his abdomen, but not much, and slender everywhere else. His lower body is more defined than his upper and he's much too tall for standard issue power armor. Perhaps close to 6’3”. It's a wonder he has any clothes that fit him properly. 

Climbing back into his vault suit, Weiss starts babbling in Danse’s general direction. “We’ve got to head out again. Soon. I mean, if there is more you need help with,” he pulls up the zipper to his vault suit, but only to the middle of his chest. Not having another singlet, his skin underneath is bare. A patch of dark hair in the center, and a gold ring hanging from the cord. “I can try and come back?”

“Yes,” Danse is careful to hold Weiss’ eyes rather than look elsewhere. “We could use the support.”

Weiss’ eyes are warm, like liquor. “Okay, okay,” Weiss sits on the desk again, pulling his legs up so he sits with them crossed. Danse worries he is too heavy, and the old desk will come crashing down around them. “Listen, I want to tell you some stuff, first. Before you accept any more help, from me. Because you might not like what you hear.”

“I doubt that…” Danse maybe speaks prematurely. But he doesn't think that's the case. Because he thinks that Weiss is a good man. Danse has seen so little of him, only a matter of hours. But he still thinks that he is right. That Weiss is right for the Commonwealth. Exactly the sort of person who will make this world better.

“So right,” he pulls at the collar of his shirt, where “111” is stitched in gold letters on the blue field of his suit. “A few weeks ago, I woke up. Everyone up here seems to know about the vaults?”

“Yes,” Danse acknowledges. “There are a number of vaults that have been opened over the centuries. And some remain functional to this day. The Brotherhood seeks them out. They are often full of technology.”

“Yeah well, so if it wasn't obvious, I crawled out of a hill. Only,” Weiss tilts his head to one side. “I wasn't born in the vault or anything. I was born before the vaults.”

Danse narrows his eyes, what? That's impossible. And, again, that word races through Danse’ mind, right at the fore, just behind his eyelids, synth. “How?”

“One-eleven was a cryogenic freeze facility. We didn't know that when we went in. All we knew was that we were getting rewarded for ‘service to our country.’”

“Your military service?” Danse confirms.

“No, not mine, his.”

“His?”

“My husband’s. Nate’s.” Weiss lights a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.

“Oh,” Danse steels himself against looking away from Weiss’ face, not letting his gaze wander.

“So the bombs start falling, explosions in the sky. And we run for the vault.” Weiss keeps his voice barely above a whisper, necessitating Danse leaning in to hear properly. “Nate, me, our son, Shaun. We all get put on ice.”

Weiss continues on, how his son was stolen, his husband murdered, and he wakes up two-hundred and ten years in the future. And in the vividness of explanation, Danse feels as if he has swept along the currents of Weiss’ life right along side him. He tastes the frost and sadness at the tip of his tongue. He sees the rolling flower beds of pristine suburbia and feels the crunch of unused bones stirring back to life. The world Danse wants to build, here in the wreckage of civilization? Weiss has seen it, he's lived it. And watched it fall to pieces. Still, Weiss wants to be good. Wants to do good. Danse feels a swell of pride for having known, right away, that Weiss is a good man.

“And this is why,” Weiss tilts his head to one side, his hair falling across the blue of his jumpsuit. “I need you too, Danse.”

The word falls so easily from Danse’s mouth, licking against his teeth, “Yes.”

Weiss smiles as he climbs back off the desk. “Thank you.” He kisses the side of Danse’s head. Perfectly chaste. Maybe a custom from his time?

Within ten minutes more, Weiss and his companions depart.


	3. When the Ceiling Fell Through

Weiss no longer has any questions about why he pays MacCready. Fuck, the guy is worth twice as much as his asking price, three times what Weiss is actually paying him. Easy. Easy. He's small, clever, and doesn't ask too many questions. Impossibly good with his rifle and just about as good at coming up with solutions to problems Weiss doesn't even know are looming on the horizon. As far as mercs go, Weiss couldn't ask for a better one.

But the ultimate decision regarding whether or not MacCready stays is in Val’s capable hands. Weiss doesn't trust his head to be clear enough to decide. Fuck, he pretty much likes MacCready on principle, the way the corners of his mouth turn down, how shockingly blue his eyes are. He's cute, he's fucking cute as hell. 

They've spent the night in a dilapidated shack. Upstairs there’s half a roof and two beds. When Weiss wakes in the morning, the other bed is empty. MacCready was in that bed when Weiss went to sleep. And he's an early fucking riser, so the idea MacCready would be up before him is weird.

Weiss stretches his arms up over his head until his shoulders crack. The left is in slightly worse condition than the right. He’d broken that side as a kid on a skiing trip with his parents. Smashed right into a fucking rock buried under the Colorado snow and screamed like a little banshee. It healed up alright, but as he gets older it aches more.

Weird, oh, fucking weird. Because he's not actually thirty-four anymore. He's two-hundred and forty-four. Grabbing at the thin fabric of his singlet, Weiss feels for his heart, letting it thud against his hand. His eyes are still closed, but he can see the white light creeping at the edges of his eyes. Rolling over, he grabs his pack from the floor. He takes three mentats, washing them down with warm water. In just a minute, he’ll feel better.

Behind his eyelids, he sees himself at twenty-three. Nate had gotten yet another promotion. And he’d called in a rush to tell Weiss all about it. Rambling on and on for a good twenty minutes until Weiss interrupted him with a laugh, asked him what he was wearing? Nate got all flustered on the other end of the line, making Weiss feel predatory, weirdly protective too. Because yeah, that pretty piece of ass he had gotten years ago was going to have a hundred and fifty men or something like that serving under him. But when Nate got back to Boston he was going to still be serving under Weiss. Puffy lipped and pliant. After Nate hung up, Weiss had been so riled he’d gone out, picked up the first guy he’d managed to charm and nearly fucked him clear through the floorboards and into the apartment below.

All those years he could have devoted himself to Nate, but didn't. Weiss didn't expect to end up here. 

He wills the start of his erection back down. It's not so hard because he's not twenty-three anymore, nope, he's two-hundred and forty-four and touching himself to the thought of his dead husband isn't something he wants hanging over his head.

As he heads down the stairs he catches sight of MacCready’s ash-brown hair on the sofa. His mouth is a little open. Val, wide awake, occupies most of the rest of the sectional, his feet propped up on the cushion.

Weiss sees his opportunity and takes it, pouncing on MacCready’s sleeping form. The merc jolts awake, but not before Weiss can slide his long fingers under the hem of his shirts. Plural, because MacCready always wears about three more layers than necessary. MacCready tries to fight back, but it's futile. Neither of them are adept at hand to hand combat or anything, but Weiss is much larger, using his weight to pin MacCready down.

“Shi! Shoot! Weiss! Fu-” MacCready struggles as Weiss tickles against his ribs and stomach, laughing. He's thin and bony under his clothes. Weiss can make out every indentation. Wrapping his hands around MacCready’s waist, he realizes he can fit his fingers almost all the way around.

MacCready’s eyes are striking, even though the sun is still low. They're the most alive part of his face. Weiss almost wants to kiss him, if only because he's cute. But he's so young too. Feels sort of lecherous. That and Val would probably deck Weiss straight in the jaw for even trying.

Weiss is still laughing as MacCready tears at his arms, nails biting into the skin. Twisting to support his weight with one arm, Weiss manages to snatch both of MacCready’s hands in one of his larger palms. Weiss pins MacCready’s arms back against the sofa. The merc stops squirming so damn much. 

“What is up with that, anyway?” Weiss pants, trying to catch his breath. The wrestling took a little out of him. Underneath him, MacCready jerks around again. Weiss pins him better with his hips. “With you not cussing?”

“Made a promise, to my wife and son. Cursed all the time as a kid. At everyone. She hated it, just hated it. So, I try to be better, for our son.” MacCready looks away, over at one of the ruined walls. Everything is full of holes. 

Valentine still hasn't said anything. Just staring with rapt attention. He looks at MacCready more than he does at Weiss. Weiss is sort of surprised he hasn't scolded him yet for being an idiot. 

Reaching for his back pocket, Weiss realizes he's not wearing any pants. Right, he hasn't gotten dressed yet. “Where are they now?” He could really do with that cigarette.

“Back in the Capital, safe.”

MacCready makes breakfast while Val smokes and Weiss finds his pants. He takes another mentat, though he doesn't really need it. While he waits for the food to heat, Weiss spins the ring on his finger, twirling it round and round. MacCready doesn't wear one. Maybe it's not a practice now? But Weiss can't consider taking his off. He’s not ready yet. Which would probably sounds real rich trying to explain because, yeah, he's been sleeping with Piper. And there was that guy in Goodneighbor, who screamed loud enough to pull paint from the walls. He was hopped up on jet or something and kept calling Weiss “daddy” which really isn't his thing but he humored the guy because otherwise it was pretty fun. And Sturges too. Fuck, Sturges will be at Sanctuary and probably still hates Weiss’ entrails. But no, he's not ready yet to take off his wedding band. But it not being a practice anymore makes a lot more sense because no one has asked about his spouse, he always has to tell them first. 

“Weiss,” Val pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. He didn't even realized he had finished his pork ‘n beans. He didn't like the stuff when it was new and he sure as shit doesn't like it hundreds of years on. “I think you should tell MacCready what he needs to know.”

Weiss smiles, “should I, now?” He tosses his empty bowl onto the floor. “Really? He's got the Nick Valentine, ace detective, seal of approval?”

Val rolls his eyes, “yes, what you said, Weiss.” He goes back to his cigarette.

Throwing his arm over the back of the couch, Weiss settles in. He's feeling a little loopy, having maybe overshot a little on the mentats for the amount of time they're sitting around, but he doesn't mind. MacCready has got his pretty eyes trained on him and that gives Weiss a burst to start talking and keep on going.

“So, right. I guess you already know that I was born before the war. In ‘43, 2043. I mean, things were already falling to pieces. Money wasn't worthless, but it wasn't like the previous century or anything. So ‘61 comes around, I finish high school. My marks are good, but the country is kind of shit…”

“Weiss, fuck. You don't need to tell him your entire goddamn life story,” Val interjects. He's been burning through cigarette after cigarette all morning. Weiss has got no idea why he's so on edge today. 

“But this is important,” it is, because it's the story about how he first laid eyes on Nate, dressed in civilian clothes but with his military pack swung over his shoulder. Amber eyes and dark hair. He'd smiled so pretty and said he guessed they were going to be deployed together. With Nate’s Minnesotan accent, vowels all screwy, and his narrow waist, Weiss had just wanted to flip him against the wall right there. In front of their CO and the other men in the battalion. Then, at least, when all eyes were on Nate, they’d know he was off-limits to their grubby fucking hands.

Weiss thinks that's important. Because he wants to tell them, Val and MacCready, about how he nearly fucked up Nate’s life, before he actually got Nate killed. But he skips all that. 

“So, you know I came out of the vault, right?”

MacCready nods, “111.”

“Well before that, we, me and my husband, Nate, we lived in Sanctuary. We’d just moved, about a year prior. I'd been keeping this apartment in town for years. Even before we got married. But it was only ever mine, you know? I was here in Boston, Nate was constantly on tour. He didn't really live anywhere. He'd gotten a commission pretty early on. The army paid for him to go to college down in D.C., whole nine yards. They treated him well, I suppose. Better than I ever did. But after that last deployment to Alaska...he was done.” He leaves out Nate’s injury. That by “Alaska” he really means the hospital in Vancouver. Val would say it didn't matter. “He'd given his whole life to defending the United States, you know? But he was ready to come home. So I bought the house in Sanctuary while he was in Alaska.” Weiss smiles, “didn't tell him about it. Just picked him up from the airport. He'd had his honorable discharge papers in his hands. 

“When I walked him to the car instead of the rail, he knew something was up. But it was worth it, absolutely worth it, to see the look on his face as we pulled up to the house. Blankets of flowers in bloom, just a carpet of them curling around the sides of the house. He'd exclaimed about them first. ‘The flowers,’” Weiss pauses. Nate had always found Boston too gray and dreary. No amount of arguing about the endless Minnesotan winter would darken Nate’s rose-tinted glasses for the Midwest. “Roses.”

Neither Val nor MacCready say anything. Right, because this is his story to tell.

“Almost the next day we’re starting on the adoption papers,” Weiss laughs at the memory, it's a lewd one. 

Nate on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. Weiss just couldn't fuck him hard enough, months since they had last seen each other. He’d pinned Nate’s arms to his sides, immobilized him completely while he ravaged into him. And somewhere between the “fuck, Nate you're so tight,” and “you're my good little slut, aren't you?” Weiss ended up whispering crazy shit about coming so hard in Nate’s ass he'd get knocked up. In the afterglow, with his arms around Nate’s shoulders, they'd talked seriously about it, if they wanted to have a family. Weiss had never really considered it. But he wasn't about to deny Nate anything he wanted, not anymore.

“It took that whole year before we got Shaun. God, Nate was so happy. Just ecstatic. I was still working fucking sixty hour weeks to pay the damn mortgage, but Nate got to stay home. He got to be happy. I'd spent so long making him sad or angry. But now, that he was out of the service? I could make him happy.” Weiss covers his face, but only for a moment. “We got assigned a place in 111 off the back of Nate’s sacrifice. Because he was a good man and a better soldier. You know, I'm still pissed at that vault-tec rep who came to our door that morning, because he wanted to talk to Nate instead of me. Nate had been playing with Shaun when he rang.

“And then just like that, the world starts ending. It wasn't...as sudden as you would think. I'd always thought nuclear annihilation was supposed to be quick and complete. But I guess it's not. Because we ran for the vault. Nate grabbed Shaun and ran ahead. He had to keep stopping for me to catch up. He was always a self-sacrificing idiot like that. But we made it below ground. We watched Boston explode from the top of the hill. Then we descended below to live under the gentle, compassionate care of vault-tec.”

Weiss sighs, “But I suppose everyone up here knows, right? The vaults weren't what we were promised. They weren't salvation, they were experiments. They told us to get into these...decontamination chambers. Nate held Shaun through the whole thing. I didn't...I didn't know it was goodbye. I didn't tell Nate…” He can't finish that thought. “They cryogenically froze us, all of us. I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late.

“But then I start waking up. And Nate is screaming. And this fucker, scar across his face, like this.” He draws his thumb across his face where Kellogg’s scar cuts.

MacCready interjects “Kellogg.”

“You know him?” Weiss is tired of everyone knowing everything before he does.

“Everyone does.”

Everyone but Weiss, apparently.

\--

Sturges won't even look him in the eye. Won't come close either. Weiss figures he deserves it, for what he did. Or didn't do, in his past life. He's not even sure. He wishes he could blame it on being fresh out of the vault and fresh in his grief, but he knows those are just excuses. Weiss is old enough (even without the extra years he didn't want) to know what kind of man he is. And he's the wrong sort of man for Sturges. He's the wrong sort of man for Piper too. So while he tries to smile and wave at the mechanic as they enter Sanctuary, he's also not surprised when Sturges brushes him off.

He still looks gorgeous though, with grease smeared across his jeans and his hair at odd angles. No denying that.

Weiss gets a list from Preston, little pieces of tech they could do with. Watches for gears, paint cans for oil, typewriters if at all possible. There were plenty of things like that around Sanctuary, when they arrived, but they're already running low. While there's plenty of salvage to rebuild homes, there is precious little still to keep them safe. And as long as security is a problem, Preston doesn't feel like there's much help he can provide to other settlements.

MacCready and Val wait outside. Weiss isn't sure what that's about, but he doesn't mind the moment with Preston. There's a good man if there ever were one. The bags under his eyes are heavy, but he still looks happier than the last time Weiss saw him.

“But Sanctuary? It's treating you well?” They both smoke cigarettes from Weiss’ pack.

“Mama Murphy was right on this call. It's a defensible position, once we get the walls up. Not perfect, but nowhere is.” 

Weiss leans against the wall, it doesn't budge under his weight, so he supposes it's solid enough. “You're doing good work here. I think I like it better now than before the war, to be honest.”

Preston chuckles, “You think you're such a great liar.”

“I'm not lying!” Weiss exclaims. “This place was too stuffy, too perfect before. People here? Saw right through me.”

“Or knew what they read in the papers?”

Weiss scowls, “Just my luck that after two-hundred years there's still hundreds of copies of the Boston Bugle that have somehow survived the fucking apocalypse. What the fuck?”

“You know, you could try talking to Sturges, explain to him? Man, I saw those articles too. But I've also seen what you've done since coming up out of the vault. You're a good man, Vishnu. No one can take that away from you.”

“It's not just him, Preston. You know,” he takes another drag before putting his cigarette out against the wall. He makes sure no sparks remain before pocketing the butt. “Val, he's got those pre-War memories, right? But they're full of holes. Remembers some stuff, but not other things.”

“Yeah, I always figured it's gotta be rough for him. Wait...are you saying that you're missing memories too?”

Fuck, if only it were that simple. “No. I'm saying, Val doesn't remember _me_.”

Realization washes over Preston’s face. “You knew him? You knew Nick Valentine before the war?”

“Yeah, I mean, we only met face to face a few times, when he would get called up to testify. And the thing is, so Nick Valentine was working with the C.I.T., right? A volunteer on their synth trials. But Val doesn't remember anything after walking into the lab. So, that could mean anything. He thinks that Nick Valentine never walked back out. But I think he did. I think I met him after his personality had already been copied.”

“So it's not that he's missing memories of you, it's that they were never there?”

“I can’t prove it though. Fuck, I just want to know, one way or another. Because right now? I'm worried one day Val’s going to wake up and try and strangle the shit out of me.”

“He wouldn't do that,” Preston assures. He's nearly done with his cigarette too. Once this conversation is over, Weiss, MacCready, Dogmeat, and Val will turn right back around to Diamond City. Then on to track Kellogg.

“Put yourself in his place, Preston. Knowing what you know about me.”

Preston stops belaboring the point.


	4. Finger Puppets and Choked Voices Make for Terrible Verses

There is little for Danse to do but wait. And the wait is frustratingly long.

Knight Rhys is recovering well from his injuries. Scribe Haylen is anxious, but kind. She putters around the station, trying to make repairs to their weapons. She isn't as skilled as some Scribes when it comes to weapon maintenance, but she's been through the secondary training, as all field Scribes are required. Rhys only as the most basic knowledge of cleaning and repair. While Danse perhaps knows a bit more than Haylen, he doesn't interrupt her work, because it's not about making repairs. It's about having something to do with her hands that isn't reaching inside of Rhys.

She’d told him, towards the start of the deployment to the Commonwealth, about her feelings for Rhys. That she already knew well enough that they were unreciprocated, and that she did not intend to let them jeopardize the mission. Danse already knew by then that she was soft, kindhearted. But he doesn’t see that as a disadvantage. Maybe that is their strength, as humans. Why they deserve this planet over the ghouls and mutants and synths. Because a woman like Haylen, who has already seen so much death and destruction, can still be kind. And can still believe in a better world.

Haylen is still reassembling her laser pistol when Danse retires to his cot. With his injured side, Rhys falls asleep sitting up in a desk chair in the lobby. While the cots are in the offices at the back of the ground floor, lit with a single lamp. The overhead lights in this room don't work. Makes it ideal for sleeping, even though none of them get much anymore.

Sitting on the edge of his cot, Danse rests his forehead on the heels of his hands. He still does not know how they will make it out of the Commonwealth alive. If they will make it out alive. He cannot rely on Elder Maxson sending another unit after them. The leadership may even assume they are all already dead. The distress signal has been sounding for weeks, and the only one to answer it has been Weiss.

Danse pulls his pack from under the bed. Inside are the few belongings he brought to the Commonwealth. Really, this is all he owns. Everything else, and there wasn't much, he threw away before departing. A set of civilian clothes, a watch with a leather band that still ticks, a bottle, and a tin. He takes the bottle, turning it over and over in his hands, watching the label go by, then disappear. He can hear the pills shifting around as they scrape against the plastic. He doesn't take the pills, he doesn't need them. Only sometimes, he wants them. He wants to feel stronger, more capable than he is. But it's never helped.

Right now Cambridge is quiet. Nothing to defend. He puts the bottle away.

Shucking out of his uniform, he folds the suit neatly before setting it on the desk they've taken to using as a dresser. He changes out of his old underwear into a new pair, pulls on a mostly dry shirt. The radiation levels incurred when washing their clothes are largely negligible, and they have plenty of radaway, stocked for a long mission with a much larger group. The tee should probably hang for another night to dry, but Danse is uncomfortable sleeping shirtless. Not on account of Haylen. He'd feel this way even if he were alone.

Laying back in bed, he tries to think about nothing at all. Most of all, not about where he is and what he's doing. Because if he dwells too long, he'll never sleep. Always worried about standing on the precipice of imminent failure. And how easy it would be to jump. Not that he wants to die. No. But that he's certain that he will die.

Instead, when blankness eludes him, he thinks about Weiss and his companions. A merc. A synth. And a vault dweller. Improbable. Entirely improbable. But Danse doesn't think himself the worst judge of character. He does not trust the other two. He’ll never trust a synthetic man. Of course not. That's beyond reason. And such an obvious one as well, hiding in plain sight. 

He cannot begrudge the mercenary on principle, as much as he might like. It's a way to earn caps, to put a roof over one’s head. Though it’s a sign of weakness too. It's not noble. It's not for a greater cause. And that's the difference between Danse and a mercenary. He's not doing this for himself.

That's what he likes to repeat to himself in the stillness of this broken room. That he did not join the Brotherhood for himself. He joined for the Wasteland. But more than that, he joined for the world he wanted to see. That place that lies on the other end of destruction. 

Danse believes, really, sincerely, that they can again live in a world like the one Weiss was born into. No, a better one. One of safety, security, and peace. It has to be possible. It has to be possible to make a world where orphans don't have to comb through piles of garbage and remains, just to earn enough caps to come in from the cold.

He can hear Haylen humming to herself as she works.

It's unintentional. Really. That he goes from thinking about Weiss’ companions, to thinking about Weiss’ world, to thinking of the line of Weiss’ spine. That visible ridge of bone when he bends over, his back curling because of his excessive height. Danse wonders if all people were so tall? If having food on the table every day made a difference?

Even if it's within the privacy of his own mind, he should not be thinking of Weiss in such terms. Not of his jawline or his hip bones or the peculiar green cast of his skin. Weiss has a husband. Someone who touched him, waited for him, loved him. Wanted to raise a child with him. Danse is only a brief interloper in Weiss’ life, even if he does return. Even if he joins the Brotherhood. Weiss is someone vast; Danse isn't sure he is someone knowable, even in his open kindness, the way he kissed the side of Danse’s head.

Danse decides Weiss must be kind. He must be good. Under the sheets, Danse’s hand stirs. He shouldn't do this. Not under these circumstances.

They are never alone. Haylen, Rhys, and he. That's not the problem. They've all learned to block out what should be private. It's easy enough to do, when you work with others in tight quarters long enough.

Danse ghosts his palm over his groin, still too hesitant to take himself in hand. But the dull frustration in his stomach, in his head, it won't leave him otherwise. Taking action against his desires will be therapeutic, if nothing else. 

He starts with just an idea, an innocent one, of a body, nondescript, in bed next to his body. Running touches over his shoulders, across his chest. It doesn't have to be anyone in particular. Just a ghost whose lips brush against his. A wall of heat, but one without specific form. It says it cares for him. That in a world, where everything dies, it will never leave him.

He tucks his hand into his underwear, stroking himself loosely at first, just the tension of heat against his erection. Danse keeps his eyes open, turned to the ceiling. All the plaster is gone, leaving the old pipes and electrics bare. The skeleton of the station vulnerable. He tightens his hand around his cock. 

There are words at his ear, but without a voice. “I'm yours. You're mine.” Selfish. Selfish. But Danse worries he is only ever selfish. He bends his knees, planting his feet flat on the mattress, so he can buck up into his hand. He bites at the inside of his mouth to keep quiet. The springs of the cot groan, but it's not too loud. 

All he wants, really wants, in moments like this, is not to feel so desperately alone.

There isn't the time to linger. His other hand tucks up under his shirt, drawing short nails across his abdomen. He's careful not to leave marks, even though there's no one who will ever see. Embarrassing, really, that he can only ever scratch himself. 

With a few more sharp strokes, he comes, careful to pull up his shirt so it doesn't stain. But the rush of his orgasm is so much, so welcome, and his cum dribbles against the hem. He rocks his head back against the pillow, pulling his hand loose. It takes him a moment to settle before he has the wits to clean himself off. There isn't the luxury of changing shirts again. He draws the soiled one back down.

\--

In the morning Danse takes apart his laser rifle. Then he puts it back together. Rhys is well enough to climb the stairs, going up to the helipad to watch out onto the horizon. If a threat dose materialize, Danse is not sure what they will do.

He cleans and repairs the minigun next. That takes him considerably longer. There are fewer moving pieces than his rifle, but he performs repairs on the minigun less frequently. Truth be told, he does not like using it. It's heavy and cumbersome. He can only wield it at all because the armor arguments his strength. Danse does not like being reminded that he is weak.

“What do you think?” Haylen starts. She has been working between two broken terminals since finishing with her pistol, swapping parts between one and the other, trying to get either one of them to turn on. This is also not her area of expertise. It's not even a task with any bearing on their mission. None of those assigned tasks are achievable. So they each must find a way to pass the time.

“What do I think?” The question is unclear.

“Oh, right, I meant, about Weiss, the vaultie?” She wipes her hands against her pant legs. 

Danse considers the appropriate answer. He does not want to make Haylen feel as if her continued contributions are insignificant. Without her, Rhys and he would likely already be dead. She is invaluable. “If he returns, I think we’ll be able to carry out one of our remaining objectives.”

“Oh yeah?” She doesn't look up from the terminal she works on. Trying the power switch again, nothing happens. She returns to fiddling with its innards. “Rhys will technically be combat ready in a couple of days.” Handling a screwdriver, she double checks the terminal is no longer plugged in. “You'd want to wait for him. I couldn't hold the station alone.”

Of course, Haylen has an accurate appraisal of her own still. Scribes are not meant to shoulder the full brunt of combat.

“I will keep that in mind, Scribe Haylen.”

Putting the screwdriver back down, she tries the power again. This time, the terminal flickers back to life. She pulls up a chair so she can sit in front of it. The casing is still loose. Inside, Danse can see the tubes and wires and chips that make it run. They may be color coded, but he does not know what any of them do. Only that when they are in the right position, and are of the right condition, the terminal works. When they are damaged or loose, they stop working. But apparently two-hundred years of neglect has not hurt them.

“He's handsome, isn't he? If you go in for the scruffy types. Or the tall ones,” she smiles, “really, as long as you're not blind.”

Danse concedes that Haylen is only trying to make conversation. Weiss and his companions are the first people they have seen in weeks. While Danse may be comfortable without conversation, Haylen enjoys the company of others. She is bright and talkative. And she is trying to include Danse. So while her comment is frivolous, he understands why she makes it.

“I suppose.”

She grins. With the holotape recorder at her side, she copies down all the files from the police terminal. There may not be much of interest there, but if she saves the data, she can comb through it later, even if the terminal dies. 

“He seemed really interested in, you know, you.”

Danse grunts. He wasn't. She mistook something about Weiss. “He's married.” It’s irrelevant that the man is dead.

“Oh,” the files finish transferring to holodisk. She pops the tape out of the recorder with a resounding click, pocketing it into her pack. “Lucky girl, guy?”

“A man,” he hesitates. “Nate.”

“Well, still, he's a good looking guy. Charming too.” Standing up, Haylen pulls another terminal from the corner where they've been stacked, starting the process over again.

Danse turns his attention back to the minigun, trying to pass the hours.

\--

Rhys does not come down for lunch, or dinner. Danse takes it upon himself to check on him. While his wound is making acceptable progress, there is always risk of infection, or even a drop in blood pressure, or a sudden spike. Any host of ailments that could remind any of them that they are only human. He excuses himself from Haylen’s company to go check.

On the roof, Rhys sits in a folding chair, his back to the door and a sniper rifle across his lap. Danse approaches him without speaking. But he also doesn't mean to surprise him, keeping his footfall heavy as he crosses the helipad.

“Anything of note?” Danse asks.

Rhys’ hands tighten around his gun. “No, sir. Nothing we need to worry about.”

Danse stands, hands behind his back, watching out over the Wasteland. Cambridge is abandoned, other than them. No settlements within visual range. Sometimes from the roof they can see mutant, ghouls, or wayward raiders. Sometimes they head for the station. By Rhys’ assessment, today will be quiet.

For a moment, he considers asking Rhys’ opinion. If he would already consider their mission a failure. But that is not an appropriate question to ask a Knight under his command. Rhys, Haylen, they still depend upon him to decide, to act. He cannot show indecision. Even now.

He meant to bring Rhys down to eat, but instead, they stare out across the Wastes together.

They both hear it, the booming, amplified noise.

“Citizens of the Commonwealth-”

Looking up, the sun dims in the wake of the ship. Danse feels as if he may burst. They're here. Oh, they're here. The Prydwen. The Elder-

“We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”

He hasn't failed. He could fall to his knees and weep for joy. But he doesn't. Only, he lets his shoulders relax a little.

Haylen comes running up the stairs, their radio in one hand. “Sir! Danse,” she turns her eyes up as well, watching the Prydwen cross the sea of the sky. Shaken from her trance by the sputtering radio, she holds it out for Danse to take. “The Prydwen, sir.”

He takes the radio from her hand, “This is Paladin Danse.” He heads back downstairs, in case he needs the privacy. 

“Glad to have reached you,” the Scribe on the other end chirps back. Faintly, he can hear the repeating message announcing the Brotherhood’s arrival playing in the background. “This is Scribe Dallon.” Static crackles over the connection. “Once we’ve docked at the Boston Airport, we’ll be sending a Vertibird to your position. Elder Maxson would like for you to hold the police station until further notice. How are you doing with supplies?”

Danse shudders a breath. He’ll have to explain everything. Every man he lost, every wrong turn he took, every cut and every stitch. He is responsible for all of it. “We’re going to need more men.”

“Already allocated, Paladin. The Elder was surprised that any of you survived. He's looking forward to congratulating you on a job well done.”

Danse doesn't know how to process the idea that he has performed better than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to everyone who has taken the time to read this so far. Just, really really, I love you all. And don't worry, the next chapter has the two leads actually in the same place at the same time. It's just taking me a minute to establish some premises.


	5. Corpus of Misgivings about the Path Marked Out Ahead

Sitting at the Dugout bar, legs curled around the stool, Weiss rubs two caps together, liking the ugly sound they make as they scrape. It's still fucking weird that this is what amounts to currency now. Although, it's as good as anything, since most of his wealth before the War only amounted to lines in a ledger. So, maybe they were the weird ones, conjuring money out of thin air.

Most everyone else has gone to sleep, but he's still restless. If he went back to Publick Occurrences now, he'd only wake Piper. She'd grumble in frustration, rolling over, mumbling something about how Weiss is so inconsiderate of other people. Maybe he could offer to show her how considerate he can be. 

He doesn't want another beer, but he orders it anyway, letting it grow warm sitting on the bar. Instead of drinking, he fiddles with his pipboy dial. Until he makes the text a bit bigger, he has to squint at the lettering. His eyes were fine before the freeze. Looking at the map, he wonders about the landmarks, all the places he never saw, even though he was born at Cambridge. Thirty-four years he lived in Boston, and he's already seen more of “the Commonwealth” in the last ten weeks. Funny.

As long as he keeps shelling out caps, he assumes he can sit as long as he'd like. But it would be cheaper just to pay for a room. He doesn't want to sleep alone, but it might do him some good. Even if only for half an hour. So when Vadim asks him, in an accent too thick to be real, if he wants another, Weiss passes over the caps for a room instead.

The room he rents is sparse, but clean enough. A mattress on a wire frame, a dresser with one shelf, though it was clearly built for two, and a lamp with a hairline fracture, tracing around the curve of robin's-egg blue ceramic. Grabbing the ashtray from the dresser, Weiss sits on the edge of the bed to smoke.

One day, one of these people is going to know. More than that, they're going to care. They’ll pick up this or that issue of the Bugle, full of water marks and decay, but the right paragraph will be visible. Or someone will savage a peculiar holotape from one of the police stations. And then it’ll be all over the radio.

Haven't you heard? That television frozen dinner from vault 111? He let bad people walk free.

Because they won't understand, like Struges couldn't understand, the concept of presumed innocence. The idea that just because you killed a man, doesn't mean the government gets to kill you back. They have to fucking prove it too.

Piper understands. She's maybe the only person in the Wasteland who ever will. Because she believes in words, so profoundly. So she can understand that Weiss didn't lie. He didn't say his defendants, the people who put their fates in his hands, didn't kill those people. All he said was, “you can't prove it.” Piper believes in proof.

She's too good for him. And he knows it.

Putting the cigarette out, he lies back against the mattress. It smells of smoke and sweat. Weiss wonders whose. He waits until five am before leaving for the paper. The sky is still murky dark, the marketplace largely still. He feels misplaced, out of time. Strictly speaking, he is. 

Dogmeat sleeps on the porch, his head settled on his paws. His ears perk up when he hears Weiss approach. Bending down to scratch his head, Weiss reminds him he's a good boy. Very good, for watching over Piper and Nat. 

Inside Piper’s home, Weiss doesn't bother to wake her. Instead, he sits at her desk, reading over her next issue for errors until sunrise.

\--

Weiss can't hear himself scream. But he can feel the warm wetness of Kellogg’s body as it comes apart in his hands. They're shaking, his hands. Shaking and clawing. Weiss doesn't remember being this strong. He doesn't remember being strong at all. Tall and awkward, before he learned how to control his limbs. Coordinated enough to make it through basic and not make a fool out of himself. But he was never strong enough to hit a man until he fell apart. But Kellogg falls to pieces.

Kellogg is already dead. The gurgling stopped some time ago. Weiss ran out of e-cells in his pistol, losing too many shots while they were both hidden in the stealth field. Kellogg was trying to hide in his pocket of invisibility, Weiss only uses the stealthboys because he doesn't know what else to do. Like he can't watch himself using a gun.

For all the guilty men he's set free, the fact he now counts among their number makes him ill.

When he looks down at his hands they're smeared with Kellogg’s blood, bright red and wet. He puts one hand to his mouth so he won't vomit, but all that does is fill his nostrils with the coppery stench. 

“Nate, Nate,” Weiss sobs, scraping his throat raw. He forgets Val and MacCready are even there.

Did Nate feel this way? Going to war? Watching the light go out behind the eyes of the men and women he shot dead? Weiss never really thought of it before. The number of people Nate must've killed for the little gold and enamel trinkets that adorned the chest of his dress uniform. Weiss was always too preoccupied trying to get Nate back out of that fucking costume. Too proud of how good Nate looked. Sweet, quiet, all-American boy Nate. Who smiled so prettily, held flowers in his hands, missed Minnesota, and loved more than Weiss could ever manage.

“You've been allocated a place in the vault, because of your service to our great country,” the Vault-Tec rep told them.

Because of the Communists killed by Major Nathan Lavenda.

Weiss isn't sure he can reconcile the two, knowing now what he does about death. He used to be able to hide behind turns of phrase, technicalities in complicated legal documents. He could pick apart the law and make the guilty free from fault, because someone hadn't followed every letter to its ultimate conclusion. Abstract justice, rendered in words rather than actions. But there have always been repercussions. In his last life, Weiss would have fought for men like Kellogg to walk away clean. Gladly.

But Kellogg killed Nate. Weiss saw it. He had to watch, immobilized in the pod. And now he's torn apart Kellogg’s chest, smashed in his face. No opportunity for trial. Does this world have law? Of course it does. But not like he knows. This is what it has, absolute justice. A desecrated carcass for which Weiss will never be asked to answer.

He doesn't like it. This world terrifies him.

But he can't let it show. Because already, there are people relying on him, expecting him to do the right thing. They think he's strong, and capable. They think he's a good man under poor circumstances. Before the vault, he was the opposite.

He swallows, “The Institute,” he reaches for his pocket to pull out his tin. Blood smears over the aluminum. He can't bear to open it. “Shaun is at the Institute.”

Weiss can't say for certain if what he feels for Shaun is real. The tiny body they picked up from the hospital, swathed in blue. His eyes were gray. Weiss thought that odd. This little creature they had been allocated, who would never look like him or Nate. Who needed them absolutely. But Nate held Shaun close, said that he and Vishnu were his fathers now, and forever. Even though the fleshy blob wouldn't understand for a long time yet.

So, at the very least, Weiss knows how he feels about Nate. He grabs the cord around his neck, feeling the ring press into his palm.

“I need to go there.”

Val says, “We’ll figure it out.”

Weiss can hear the pity in Val’s voice. The subtle resignation. The control room is so quiet now. No more gunfire, no more explosions, no hum of synth joints moving. Val is quieter than the gen 2s. He fades into the ambient noise.

“Someone has to know a way in,” MacCready contributes. He doesn't talk much otherwise. Sure, he barks orders when bullets fly. But when no one is in immediate danger? The merc fades into the fucking woodwork.

Unconcerned now with the blood and viscera, Weiss sticks his hand back into Kellogg’s chest cavity. He's still warm. Tugging at the metal edge of some object inside Kellogg, he points it out to the others. “He's full of shit like this,” he pulls at the corner, but it doesn't come free. “He's full of Institute bullshit.”

Weiss is tired, so tired. But he can't sleep yet.

Val tells MacCready to take Weiss outside. That he’ll get the augments out himself. Weiss doesn't argue. The air inside Hagen is too hot, and it doesn't move. Just hangs around his head like a cloud.

MacCready offers his hand to help Weiss up. Either he's oblivious to the blood or doesn't care. Right, Weiss breathes, MacCready is a mercenary. His job is to kill. Like so many people’s. Not only in this world, but the old one too. But MacCready is also kind, not letting go of Weiss’ hand, even as they exit the fort, out into the ravages of the setting sun. The blood sticks between them.

“Why do you kill people for caps?” Weiss asks.

MacCready shakes his head. “Why do I have to?”

Weiss knows better than to look directly into the sun. But he can't help but think it's beautiful in the low hanging radioactive haze of evening. He thinks about MacCready putting snow-white mentats into his mouth for him, since the merc’s hands are literally clean, if metaphorically dirty. How many caps would that cost? To have the cute boy stuff him full of drugs like grapes into a decadent Roman patriarch?

Overhead, the sky grows dark. They look up in unison, hands still clasped together. The blimp above is like none Weiss has ever seen. Its massive belly blots out the sun as it moves across the clouds. “Citizens of the Commonwealth,’ Weiss wants to correct that there are no citizens here. With no overarching government, the Commonwealth can claim no citizens. The Commonwealth provides no services. “We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“No,” falls from MacCready’s lips, soft and hurt. “No.”

Together, they watch the blimp recede into the distance, but it won't disappear. Its message of peace and salvation plays on repeat. But a ship like that isn't built from olive branches.

When Weiss flexes his hand, dried blood flakes away. He lets go of MacCready so he can reach for his cigarettes and tin. Two mentats should be enough to see him until evening. Already, he has to think ahead. Swallowing his dose, he starts curling and uncurling his toes in his boots. He formulates a plan. Paladin Danse. He has to go back. If there is something that Weiss excels at, in all worlds, it's understanding how the sins of the few justify the terrible acts of many. How people can be led. He's decided, he won't stand by while everything falls apart.

Maybe he was the one meant to survive? Maybe this future didn't need another soldier, as beautiful as Nate was.

\--

They have to get back to Diamond City, but Valentine says they must stop. Weiss knows it's on MacCready’s account. They have to eat, rest. But it's not fair to hold that against the merc, any human would have the same frailties. Weiss has them too, he knows. But he's seldom hungry. And while he's always exhausted, he can always force sleepiness back down. Ball it up tight to save for later.

The settlement shares their meal. The Minutemen are accomplishing a great deal of good in the Wasteland. Weiss thanks them for their continued support. Though he can't remember what he and Preston may have done for this particular settlement.

“I'm going back to Cambridge,” he announces when he's finished wolfing down his meal. Barely tasted it on the way to his stomach. There is no other way. He can't let the Brotherhood get to the Institute first. They may put Shaun in danger. They may just nuke the whole place, if they already know where it is. For all he knows, the Brotherhood are three steps ahead of them already. That's not a risk Weiss can take.

MacCready swallows down his mirelurk, “What about the Institute?” Val picks from the corner of MacCready’s plate.

“That has to be why the Brotherhood is here, right?” He wraps his arms around his legs. With the sun setting, it's starting to get cold. His jacket is wrapped around his pack. “I'm going to see what Paladin Danse knows. You two should head back to Diamond City, make sure Piper has eyes and ears on this.” He tries to make his command sound like a suggestion. Easier to swallow that way.

Val tries to argue that they don't need the Brotherhood. They don't. Between them and Piper and Preston, they can figure this out. They will find a way in. Weiss shakes away the suggestion. He has to do this. He has to know what the Brotherhood knows. MacCready, maybe, Weiss can forgive. But Val should know better. He should know what men like the Brotherhood are capable of.

He won't wait for morning. There's no point. Before he goes, Val wishes him luck, hugs him goodbye. Weiss feels that pang of doubt again. That one day, Val will remember that they hate each other. That the human Nick Valentine has enough reason to murder him where he stands. Only, Weiss doesn't hate Val. Not now that he knows the man. Not now that they are on the same side. No, that's not it, there aren't even sides anymore.

MacCready holds out his hand to shake, but Weiss only uses it to pull him in for a hug. This isn't goodbye. Not in a forever way. But he does not know how long this will take. Or if, when he comes back, these two men will want to see him again. Putting his lips to MacCready’s ear, Weiss whispers, “You're a better man than I.” He doesn't give MacCready enough time to respond.

Dogmeat trots at his side on the way out of Oberland. Once Weiss reaches the boundaries of the settlement, where they lights can no longer reach him, he hits the trigger on his stealthboy. Easier. 

\--

It's not Danse, or any of the others Weiss met last time, who opens the door to Cambridge Station. But the young woman with short cropped hair, who wears the emblem of the Brotherhood across her chest. “State your business, citizen.”

Weiss puts out his cigarette on the open doorframe, careful to wick the ash back outside rather than onto the station floor. He tosses the butt into the dirt just to the side of the door. “I'm here for Danse?” Now is not the time to be confrontational. Any one of these people could take his head clear off. “Is he still here?” It occurs to Weiss that Danse may have left for that ship. That maybe he isn't here at all.

But Danse appears behind the woman, clad in his orange Brotherhood uniform, hair meticulously in place. He looks like he's had about a dozen showers since the last time Weiss saw him. Though he's done no better at shaving. Weiss knows the struggle.

When they look at each other, they smile. Weiss forgets for a moment that he's here for information, for surveillance. To dredge up what he can about the Institute, and how the Brotherhood plan on proceeding. Because suddenly the station is woefully crowded, even though there's only three or four more people around than last time.

“Weiss?” Danse asks.

“Danse? I need your help,” he steps inside the threshold of the station. The woman who let him in moves away, back to whatever her assigned task must be.

Something about Danse’s face changes. The openness that was there before shutting down, like a gate closing in front of Weiss’ eyes. Danse looks down, then back up again as a different man. “I need something from you, first.”

“Okay,” Weiss assures, “of course.”


	6. Chipped, smashed, obliterated, made whole

Weiss smells of blood. It's under his nails, in his hair, the fibers of his clothes. But Danse does not question whose or why. He and Weiss walk together towards ArcJet. The Brotherhood needs that component to repair the array. And while their numbers in the Commonwealth are greater now than they were before, they cannot throw soldiers haphazardly into a mission. A mission Danse should have completed before their arrival.

Elder Maxson suggested they simply eliminate Weiss. That he would be more a complication than anything else. A pre-War relic with undue influence in an already unstable environment. Recover the pipboy, though. And any of his personal belongings still in good condition.

Danse can't do that. He can't kill Weiss. He knows the Elder is being cautious, though he's never known Maxson to be a cautious man. But Danse managed to convince him otherwise, that Weiss may be an asset, rather than a threat. And Maxson is not an unreasonable man. He listened while Danse argued his point. So now, all that remains, is to show Weiss what they can accomplish together. To make sure he understands what is best for the Commonwealth. That's all the Brotherhood really wants.

Danse offered him a suit of power armor before they left the station. Weiss only mumbled that he is too tall. They’ll get him a suit that fits better, once they're to the Prydwen. But for now, he refuses to use the too-small set. Instead, he's dressed in leathers, cobbled together armored segments layered on top like an insect's carapace. 

Weiss talks a great deal as they walk. He's fascinating. “You know, when I was a kid,” his boots crunch in the dirt, “My grandparents, my dad’s parents. They would take me out to the ocean. We had these traps for crabs. So you would go out onto the pier, load up this cage with junk fish you could buy at the bait shop. Then lower the cage into the water. The rest of the day you'd just fuck off. Go run around in the sand, or eat hot dogs or whatever. I'd watch my dad get all red and sunburned. But then you'd pull up the traps, and they'd be filled with crabs. Stick them in a bucket and then boil them later.”

“Why are you talking about crabs? What is a crab?”

“Oh,” Weiss narrows his eyes. “Ah, what mirelurks were before they were mirelurks. You've seen pictures, right?”

Of course he has, only Danse had forgotten, or not made the connection. At Rivet City, the mirelurks had been constant pests. They would have to shoot them away from the sides of the hull. But as the years of clean water continued, there appeared to be fewer and fewer. Now, in the Commonwealth, they are everywhere again.

“Have you ever been to the Capital?” Danse asks, curious about what it was like before the bombs. He doesn't strictly think of it as home. Nowhere is home. Or maybe, the Brotherhood is? Not the Citadel specifically, though he has an assigned room behind sturdy walls. He has a room now on the Prydwen too. So wherever the Brotherhood is, Danse is meant to feel at home. But it doesn't always feel that way.

“Yeah,” Weiss puts his hands behind his head, elbows sticking out. “School trips as a kid, then I would have to take the train down for work, sometimes.”

“Because you were a lawyer?”

“Yeah,” Weiss scrunches up his face, “the firm had a branch in D.C.”

“You know," Danse offers, ”our Scribes have recovered a great deal of records from the Capital, dating before the war. Mostly regarding technology, launch codes, military movements, but we discard very little. There may be something of yours to be found?”

Weiss’ eyes narrow again. “I don't want to see it.” He sticks his hands in the pockets of his pants. “We’re almost there?”

“Yes,” it serves Danse right, following such a frivolous line of dialogue. “Another fifteen minutes or so.”

“Are you from D.C.?” While Weiss may no longer talk about himself, he can't keep quiet.

“At least as far as I remember.”

“You're not sure?” Weiss’ expression is of deep concern, 

“I….remember picking through salvage, learning to sell it. Eventually, when I was older, I had enough caps to open a shop,” he doesn't discuss his childhood often. There’s no need. Most Brotherhood members aren't interested in his past. Only what he can provide in service. The kind of person he is. “I moved to Rivet City. One of the bigger settlements.”

“And your parents?”

They're almost to ArcJet now.

“I don't have any.” Danse isn't sure if that sounds better or worse than the word, orphan.

“And here I am, like an ass. Talking about summers on the shore. Fuck, I'm sorry, Danse.”

“It's fine,” it is, he doesn't think much of it.

They arrive at ArcJet. Danse isn't expecting much from Weiss in combat, that's not why he's here. Why Danse needs him. But if he can take orders, work from Danse’s instructions, that will be a start. Danse reloads his laser rifle. He hopes not to need it. Weiss does the same to his smaller pistol.

“A rifle would give you better power, longer range.”

Weiss turns the gun over in his hands, before sticking it into the waistband of his pants. From his pack, he pulls a stealthboy. “I'm not any good at a distance. Better that I have to get close.” Strapping the stealthboy unit to his wrist, Weiss doesn't turn it on. 

“But you're more likely to get injured. It's reckless, the way you fight.”

Weiss’ lip curls. “You'll just have to protect me then, big guy.”

Danse plays off the suggestion, Weiss can't mean anything by it. “We need to make it to the control room. The transmitter should be there.” Keeping his rifle drawn, Danse pushes through the first set of doors, into the atrium.

The first room is clear. In the next, there could be anything, radroaches, ghouls, raiders. He doesn't expect raiders, they typically leave signs of squalor across everything they touch, marking walls with graffiti or blood. If there were mutants, he'd be able to hear them breathe. But all Danse hears is a faint hum.

No, it can't be.

“Say behind me, Weiss.” That only makes sense. Danse is better armored, a better shot, more combat experience. Acting in support will be more than enough for Weiss to handle. 

“As much as I love the view,” he can't mean anything by that. Danse is in his power armor. “I can't help much from behind. I've got to be out front.”

“Listen,” Danse insists. “There are synths on the other side.”

“Then they can already hear us,” Weiss kicks open the second set of doors, vanishing into thin air.

This isn't what Danse had planned.

The building is dark, what available light there is cutting across the stark-white synth casings. They carry Institute issue rifles and pistols, bulky, but sturdy, cheap to mass manufacture. But they take longer to load, and require the precision of a synth to aim effectively. Danse knows a lot about these weapons, though he has only fired them himself a few times.

He tries to pick off the synths as they flood the lobby, coming in from the next room. There isn't enough light for him to see Weiss’ shimmer, but sometimes he can hear him.

“SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!”

Danse swivels in that direction, only to watch a synth crumple to the ground, a lasered hole in its chest. While not all of his rounds hit, enough of them do, keeping the gen 2s from overwhelming them completely. Their bodies start piling up by the door. 

“Weiss, the next room!” Conceivably, their stream could be endless. No one has an estimate on how many synths there are currently in the Commonwealth.

The doors to the next room swing open and closed. Weiss must have moved on. Danse follows behind, unworried about checking the bodies. He's brought enough ammunition to last. 

The next set of doors are sealed. Weiss is in front of a terminal, visible again, biting his lip and scanning the screen. But if the next door is locked, where did the synths come from? They were all crowded in this room together?

“Okay, that should be it,” the doors hiss as the maglock comes undone.

“You can hack terminals?” Danse asks.

Weiss shakes his head, “I can guess passwords? I mean, it's not hard.”

The next door leads to the engine core. There are more synths inside. Unless Danse is missing something fundamental about the building’s layout, this doesn't make sense, synths appearing from nowhere.

Teleportation.

Synths can teleport.

It sounds too unreal. But he thinks about it again, and his fingers start tingling.

Weiss rips off the used stealthboy and there isn't time for him to attach another. He must have some self preservation instinct, because this time he does stay behind Danse, picking choice shots from around the mobile shield of Danse’s armor. He was not exaggerating, his shots at a distance are considerably less accurate. But most people exhibit a similar fault.

Danse can smell blood again. And this time, he realizes it's fresh, Weiss is bleeding.

“You need a stimpak,” it's not a question.

“I don't have any,” Weiss barks back.

Danse has to focus on shooting, not arguing, but he starts feeling drunk on the stench at his side. Why is the smell such a roar? They shoot down the last synth in the room. But Danse now worries there may be more. They have to get the power running so the elevator will switch on.

“I'll do that,” he grabs Weiss’ shoulder, as gently as he can in the armor. “You need to stop the bleeding.” 

Weiss steps away from the console. “Do you have stims then?”

“Yes,” he opens the side compartment of his armor. Inside are stims, med-x, and conventional first aid supplies.

Weiss raises an eyebrow, pulling out two stims and a roll of bandages. “Some toaster.”

Danse pointedly ignores the jab. “Why do you not have stimpaks?” He means, ‘why are you so intent on dying?’

“Val normally carries them. Or MacCready.”

“You trust the synth with your well-being? After what you've seen here. Would you still trust him?”

Weiss doesn't hesitate, “Of course. You've met him. Is he at all like these synths?”

Danse grunts, trying to find the fault in the wiring. Taking off his helmet, he cracks his neck, trying to relieve some tension. 

Weiss uncaps the syringe, jabbing it into his side. He should have placed it closer to the wound, but at least it should start stitching together. 

Still working on the power, Danse doesn't notice Weiss stripping from the waist up until he's settling his chest plate against the table. When Danse turns, Weiss is stretching his arms over his head. His upper ribs show through his skin. The wound at his side is still puffy, not entirely sealed, but it looks better. Weiss wipes away the blood before starting to wrap the bandages around his abdomen. Danse should look away.

“Having trouble?” Weiss leans over Danse’s shoulder. When in armor, Danse is as tall as the vault dweller, and twice as bulky. Somehow, though, Weiss still makes him feel small. 

“I don't suppose they taught electrical engineering in law school?”

Straightening, Weiss tucks a loose strand of dark hair back behind his ear. “But you don't need to fix it, just divert the power to the elevator.”

“That will turn off all the remaining overhead lights.”

Weiss touches his pipboy, turning on the green glow at his wrist. “Are you saying there's nothing for low-light vision in your helmet.”

Grumbling, Danse steps aside, letting Weiss handle the terminal. A few keystrokes later, the overhead fluorescents cut, leaving them in the dark, other than the glow of Weiss’ pipboy light. While the vaultie normally looks a bit green, the cast now renders him barely recognizable as human. Instead he looks like a long-limbed alien with a mouth full of sharp teeth, two voids for eyes.

“Elevator is on,” he sounds self satisfied.

\--

The transmitter is enroute back the the Prydwen. From there, Procter Ingram will determine if it is suitable for installation, and Scribes with the appropriate skill will be dispatched to the site. Danse’s work on the project is complete. All that remains is to deliver Weiss to Elder Maxson, to formalize his initiation into the Brotherhood.

Danse will recommend for Weiss’ admission without reservation, even if he does have concerns. Because the alternative is unacceptable.

Stepping from his armor, Danse stretches his shoulders first. The suit has been sized properly for him, but there isn't a suit commissioned that allows for a full range of motion. So his upper body is often tense after hours inside. Unclipping his hood at the neck, he pulls it away, running his fingers through his hair when it snags.

“We’ll spend the night here. Scribe Haylen and Knight Rhys will be back in the morning. Their vertibird will take us back to the Prydwen.” With the auxiliary troops returned to the ship, Weiss and Danse will be alone in the station until morning. They cannot leave the outpost unattended, so they must wait for the others’ return.

Weiss shrugs his shoulders, unlacing his boots. Once they are undone, he sits on the nearest chair to tug them off. “Okay, great, great. Sounds like a plan.” With his shoes removed, Weiss fiddles with his hair, taking down his ponytail and letting dark strands fall over his shoulders. Pulling at the ends, he divides half his hair on either side of his neck.

Leaning forward across the desk in front of him, Weiss plays with the assortment of pens left in the coffee mug at the edge. He takes each one out, scrutinizes it, then puts it back into the mug.

Danse won't say anything to the Elder on that account either. 

“Are you hungry?” Danse asks, trying to bring Weiss’ focus off of the pens.

Weiss shifts back in his chair, his leg bouncing under the desk. “Sure.”

As they eat the leftover rations, prepared earlier in the day when the station was still bustling, Weiss leaves his hair down. Danse doesn't know why he finds that so interesting. He should be paying more attention to the molerat, making sure he chews thoroughly, so he doesn't choke. 

“I try not to miss things, you know.” Weiss puts down his bowl, it's still half full. “I try to not miss things because there's no going back,” he swallows. “But the food here is fucking shit.”

Danse has to stop himself from laughing.

\--

Danse feels the sink of the mattress as a foreign weight settles beside him. Every muscle in his body tenses, ready to strike at the intruder. But then he realizes, it's Weiss. He can tell by the smell, though the vaultie no longer reeks of blood. But whatever was there, under the coppery surface, Danse must have noticed that too, because now he recognizes the body in bed with him is Weiss’.

An arm comes to drape around his waist, pulling his back to Weiss’ chest. Their legs start to shift together. Oh. He should, he should stop this. But why is Weiss in his bed? Why are they curled around each other? Weiss’ leg is shaking the whole frame.

“Danse?” His lips brush against the back of Danse’s neck. It's almost like a kiss.

“Weiss,” his throat is parched. Pulling the word is difficult.

“Is this alright?”

Danse wraps his hand around Weiss’ arm. But he doesn't push Weiss away. The fabric of Danse’s shirt keeps them parted, if only by a fraction of an inch. Danse worries his thumb over Weiss’ arm.

“Why are you here?”

“Is this alright?” Weiss repeats. His hand starts curling in the fabric of Danse’s tee. Danse can tell Weiss is shirtless, the ring around his neck pressing into Danse’s back. “I can leave if you want.”

“What about Nate?” And Danse wishes he hadn't asked. Because maybe this isn't supposed to be romantic? Weiss’ behavior is so strange sometime, but maybe it's only strange because he is old. But Danse is fairly certain this isn't an old world convention.

Weiss kisses just behind his ear. It's unmistakable. “Danse...Nate died in that vault.”

Not knowing what else to say, Danse replies. “It's alright.”

Soon after, Weiss falls asleep. Danse can only stare at the wall ahead.


	7. All and all your tactics are pretty good, probably twelve out of fifteen

Weiss pretends to be afraid of the vertibird. Not some sort of exaggerated terror, that would be too obviously a ruse. He doesn’t scream, or cry, or really say anything. But when Danse tells him to step into bay, Weiss flinches, his hand brushing lightly against Danse’s gauntlet. “Okay, alright.” 

He steps up, taking the middle-most seat against the hull wall. Other than the pilot, he and Danse are traveling to the Prydwen alone. Two Brotherhood Knights depart from the helicopter first, arriving to help Haylen (who Weiss decides he likes very much) and Rhys (who he doesn’t). 

Danse doesn’t sit next to him, instead taking the seat across from him. Weiss wishes Danse hadn’t worn the power armor, climbed into that toaster. But Danse seems uneasy without it. Like a security blanket, wrapped around his already impressive frame. He doesn’t need it, certainly not to go to the Brotherhood’s base of operations, which makes Weiss wonder why he wants it.

Weiss looks out the open side of the vertibird, pulling his head back sharply as it starts to take off from the station roof. Laughing nervously he comments, “Never been in one of these before.” He has been.

Danse replies, “They’re perfectly safe. The failure rate among the Brotherhood’s units is impressively low, even given the age of the equipment.”

Weiss has to bite back a groan, because Danse isn’t biting at all.

Giving up on being obvious, Weiss needs to formulate another plan, his hands stuck in the pockets of his slacks. He actually brought ‘nice clothes,’ or the Wasteland equivalent, to wear when meeting the Elder. Dark slacks, pressed shirt, yellowed slightly with age. It doesn’t actually fit him. He has to roll up the sleeves to the shirt to hide that they are far too short. But the ensemble gives the impression of effort. 

Rather than look at the Wastes below, Weiss chooses to look across the bay at Danse. Danse is unequivocally beautiful. Since first laying eyes on him, Weiss has thought so. He’s the sort of beautiful that generally results in the man underneath the pretty casing being well aware of his desirability. And Weiss should know. He has first hand experience with the type. But Danse doesn’t seem to notice he’s exquisite, or much care. Perhaps he just is that dedicated to his lost cause. 

Only, he let Weiss lay in bed with him, back to chest, Weiss’ arm around his waist. So, there must be some molecule of desire there. He was warm, and pliant. And Weiss slept better than he has since coming back above ground.

“You should sit next to me,” Weiss has to raise his voice over the clatter of the propellers.

Danse looks at him, wide eyed at first.

“You should sit next to me,” he repeats, louder.

Not asking why, Danse looks away again, out over the ruins of Boston. This was Weiss’ home for so, so long. Yeah, he tries not to miss things that are forever gone. But it's so much harder when they're always right in his face.

Danse grabs at the railing overhead to steady his balance as he crosses the bay. When he clunks into place next to Weiss, Weiss’s chest feels so full. Like he might burst open.

\--

“The Elder” isn't every elderly at all. A boy just over twenty, with a beard that hides his face, still pocketed with remnants of baby fat. Strange, that growing up in a place such as this world, he still looks remarkably soft. But Weiss sees it, in his puffy earlobes, the absence of creases around his eyes, the way his chest puffs out when he speaks. Weiss feels uncharacteristically sorry for the boy. Because even with the signs of youth, his shoulders are hunched, his lips are dry.

“Elder Maxson,” Danse goes to introduce him. “This is Vishnu Weiss, the recruit I told you about.”

Maxson scowls, but Weiss doesn't begrudge him that. Weiss remembers being that age. How reckless he was, how alive. And to shoulder such a burden so young cannot be easy, even if the weight Maxson carries is one weaved of violence. But children are not so soft here. MacCready is just about this age as well, but his face looks older, more drawn. Perhaps because of its gauntness. Boys like Maxson still get to eat, while those like MacCready live in perpetual famish. Weiss doesn't yet know what separates them, other than an accident of birth. Maybe that's all there is to it. Maybe it's just not that complicated.

Weiss sticks out his hand for Maxson to take, “Pleased to meet you, Elder.” He smiles faintly, not too much.

Maxson hesitates, but extends his hand. His black gloves are worn at the fingertips. He must wear them frequently. When the handshake ends, Maxson folds his hands behind his back again. Weiss sticks his in his pockets.

“Paladin Danse has briefed me on your abilities. I trust his judgement in such matters. He’s one of my most trusted officers. But I have a few questions of my own.”

Weiss shrugs his shoulders. This boy won't outsmart him. He knows that much. “Sure thing.”

“Danse reports you came from Vault 111, that you were cryogenically frozen?”

Weiss nods, “Yes, that's right.”

“And you suffered no damage from the process?” Incredulous as he may be, Maxson can't prove one way or another if Weiss is lying. 

“No. None.”

“So, you have not been in the Commonwealth long?”

Barking a laugh, Weiss can't avoid being smart on that one. “Technically I've been in ‘the Commonwealth’ since ‘43, but sure. I got thawed a couple months ago.” He rocks up onto the balls of his feet. Then thinks better of it. He's already much taller than Maxson. He's not trying to look imposing, or suspicious. He's trying to look as perfectly normal as he can, given the conditions.

“So tell me, what do you think of the Commonwealth? This Commonwealth.”

This is where Weiss must tread carefully. He's here to collect information, not give it away. But he needs belief, trust, access. He shakes his head, “It's not the future you would ever wish for.”

Maxson nods, “No, it is not. Full of threats to the human race. Mutants, ghouls, synths,” Maxson begins pacing, hands still clasped behind his back. “These atrocities would destroy us. The Institute is but one manifestation of this danger, but it is the most pressing one.” The longer he walks, the more his shoulders hunch. “What do you think, of the Institute?”

“You mean, ‘of synths?’” Weiss isn't sure how much Danse has told Maxson. If he already knows about Val.

“They would replace all of us with machines.”

“I'm no tin can, Elder,” he tries a short term tactic. The longer this conversation drags, the less advantage Weiss maintains for later. “I've met synths. But I can't claim to understand them.”

“Maybe, in time, you will.” Maxson stops pacing. “You'll see the threat they pose. He shifts topics, “Paladin Danse has sponsored you. As such, he is responsible for your training. I will call upon you as needed.” With that, the boy dismisses them both.

Only when they are on the other side of the heavy door, does Weiss speak to Danse again. “Can I smoke up here? Or no?”

Danse scrunches his nose, forming wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Out on deck I suppose.”

Together, they walk towards where the vertibirds are docked. Weiss lights his cigarette just as soon as they are outside. He drags deeply from it while Danse talks. Honestly, it’s the most words strung together that he’s heard from the soldier since they’ve met. 

“You should become acquainted with the Brotherhood Proctors. And you should see Knight-Captain Cade for a physical…”

Weiss has to stop Danse before he commits them to a whole manner of projects. “Danse, I doubt I need a physical. I’m fine.” He leans against one of the unattended vertibirds, slouching on the side while he smokes. Danse stands in front of him, still itching to continue. Careful not to exhale towards Danse, Weiss blows out before continuing. “I’m probably the healthiest person in the Wastes. Even accounting for the fact I’m old and tired and smoke too much.” He doesn’t mention the mentats, which are half the reason he doesn’t want to step near this ‘Knight-Captain Cade.’ He still needs the drugs. He doesn’t have time to sit through a detox.

Danse sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “We should at least see Proctor Ingram. She can arrange for a suit of power armor that will fit you properly.”

If he can avoid it, Weiss has no intention of stepping into power armor again, whether or not it fits. He’s not going to find Shaun through instruments of war. He’s not going to make the Commonwealth better that way either. But he has to make some concessions to Danse. And Weiss can tell that Danse insists on the armor because he’s worried. Weiss is reckless. He forgets sometimes that he needs to protect himself. He rushes in, hoping the semi-invisibility stealthboys afford will be enough to keep him safe. Danse doesn’t want him to get hurt. Danse wants him to be more careful. 

“Sure,” Weiss puts out his cigarette against the side of the vertibird, dusting away the speck of ash once it cools. “Let’s see about this armor.”

Danse breathes a sigh of relief. “You should know,” they start heading back inside, “I’m assigning you the rank of Knight within the Brotherhood.”

Weiss holds the door open for Danse to head inside first. “What?” he’s shocked, “from the way you’ve described it, wouldn’t I be more suited as a Scribe?” Weiss had been assuming that would be his position. It would give him access to terminals, information, logistics. Given his former occupation, it would have made sense. 

Danse shakes his head, “Even Field Scribes are provisioned limited offensive equipment. I’d assumed you’d wish to travel together. Work together, um,” Danse starts over, “that we’d compliment each other…” They’re still not the words Danse wants. “It will be easier this way.”

He can’t help but laugh, “Okay, Danse, of course.”

Danse doesn’t look at him the rest of the walk to see Proctor Ingram

\--

In the morning, they are expected to take Fort Strong back from the supermutants. Danse has already promised, once this task is over, they will look for Shaun. But if the Brotherhood are to gain a foothold in the Commonwealth, they need access to that armory.

Weiss sits at the edge of his cot in the common room aboard the Prydwen, his socked feet pushing into the criss-cross texture of the aluminum floor. It is not his intention to help the Brotherhood. Not when so many of those he cares about are opposed. But he has to think about the long game here. They would be obliterated, were they to make enemies of the Brotherhood now. So, he has to do this.

With his rank of Paladin, Danse has private quarters aboard the ship. Maxson clearly holds Danse in some regard, but Weiss isn’t sure if that is by necessity or personal affection. Still, driving them apart may be his best way in. Danse is a good man, he means well. But the things he fucking says. About ghouls. About mutants. About synths. They’re vile at times, but scared always. Weiss doesn’t know what Danse is so afraid of. Because it can’t really be ghouls, mutants, synths. 

Weiss pulls his boots back on, not bothering with the laces. He throws on a shirt as well before heading towards Danse’s room. He has to know, and it has to be now, if Danse is worth saving from this tangle of convenient untruths. Men and women who think that they’re fighting for a beautiful world. But a world that can never exist under these conditions. Under any conditions. No universe is black and white. Only, sometimes, they are forced to describe the clutter around them in such binary terms. Manipulate the truth with lies about structure and justice. Weiss has always been a manipulator too. But now? Right fucking now? He has to know how far he’s willing to go, and what is worth salvaging.

He knocks at Danse’s door. It takes him a moment to decide where to strike.

“Yes?” Danse pulls his door open. Dressed for bed, his eyes are cloudy, perhaps he was already asleep. His stubble lays thickly across his cheeks and chin, and Weiss wants him. Wants him so badly it hurts. He knows why he keeps stopping short, but not why Danse does as well. If it’s simple shyness, or adherence to some arbitrary rule. 

“Let me in?” Weiss asks and Danse steps aside, closing the door behind him.

Weiss stands in the middle of Danse’s sparse quarters. There’s a cot, a footlocker, a desk, and not much else. Nothing distinguishing. Nothing that defines the space as Danse’s

Danse’s arms hang limply at his sides. “What can I help you with, Weiss?”

Weiss turns back to him. “Why do you belong to the Brotherhood?”

Looking away, Danse answers, “They believe in a better world. In safety, security, and order. Who wouldn’t want to belong to an organization like that?”

Weiss steps towards Danse, putting his fingers to Danse’s neck first, then moving up to his cheek. Danse looks back to him, and this time he holds. 

“Weiss?”

“Is this alright?”

Danse doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either. And Weiss feels like he just might break if he doesn’t expel this knot of want. If he doesn’t let the pressure out. Because he’s decided, Danse is worth this. He won’t be left to ruin like the rest of the Brotherhood. Weiss isn’t going to leave him here, trying to break through layers of cement. He’s going to tend the garden of Danse’s kindness the best he can, graft it to a different path. Because even if he himself is not good, Weiss knew good men. He knows them.

He kisses Danse, however briefly, lips parted just enough to exchange a puff of air between them. Weiss relaxes for just a moment, because Danse, despite all appearances, is soft and pliant, wanting more than he can articulate. Danse’s hand brushes against Weiss’ waist, a brief flash of warmth, then withdraws. And then, because Danse didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either, Weiss pulls back. Danse’s eyes are closed, and his mouth still slightly open. Weiss brushes his finger against Danse’s cheek before withdrawing his hand as well.

“I’ll go back to my cot now.”

“Why did you do that?” Danse asks before he can go.

“Because if I didn’t, I’d regret it.”

Danse doesn’t ask him to stay. But that’s alright.


	8. Obligations to the Person You Were Yesterday

“The power armor isn’t necessary,” Weiss says, stepping back from the suit, newly modified to accommodate his height. Proctor Ingram had two of her assistants work through the night to ensure that it would be ready for the assault on Fort Strong. “I know you got this done in a rush. But,” reaching forward again, Weiss runs his fingers along the breastplate. “I’ll be alright without it.”

Danse sighs, refusing to budge, “As you’ve been informed, the fort is densely infested with supermutants. They are utilizing heavy artillery acquired from the armory and surrounding supply caches. They are exceptionally well armed, volatile, and extremely dangerous. You are required to wear the armor.”

Weiss turns to him, brown eyes catching in the light, looking lighter, warmer, than they normally do. “Are you ordering me to wear it?”

“Yes.” This is for Weiss’ safety.

Pulling at the latch, Weiss opens the suit wide at the back. “Fine,” he says, before falling silent and climbing in. The suit seals up behind him, encasing him safely inside.

Finally exhaling, Danse is content enough that Weiss listens, even if he must trudge through protestations first. This will make the mission easier. But Weiss was so adamant about not wearing the suit. He had refused additional training last night as well, insisting that he remembers how to operate the armor. It may have been fifteen, well, two-hundred and twenty-five, years prior. But he remembers. He had worn a suit at Concord recently. 

Weiss’ voice comes through the external speaker, his helmet already on. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

Nodding, Danse puts on his helmet as well, leading the way to the vertibird. “Have you operated a minigun as well?” He swings open the door, letting Weiss through first. 

“Yes,” Weiss’ answers now are short, clipped. Not the rambling, looping stories he provided on the way to ArcJet, or even when they’ve been together aboard the Prydwen. Always chattering, sharing stories and observations, his limbs shivering with excitement.

“Why don’t you go ahead and shoot then.”

Weiss hesitates, “Your aim will be better.”

“There’s not much aiming. With the rapid fire rate and the size of the mutants, you should do fine.” Danse climbs up into the vertibird first, before offering Weiss a hand up. Doing so doesn’t strike him as odd until they’re both on the deck. Weiss doesn’t need the assistance, but it seems right to offer. 

Weiss takes his position at the gun without further argument. Telling the pilot they’re ready for lift off, Danse readies his laser rifle. It will be of little use until they land, but he feels better having it in hand. He adjusts his audio input to dull the sounds of the vertibird as they pull away from the Prydwen. Should Weiss need to talk to him, he should still hear just fine.

The flight to Fort Strong does not take long. They are only in the air for a few minutes before the low buildings of the base come into view. Much of the surrounding area is littered with debris, exploded tankers and collapsed buildings. But the storehouse appears intact enough. 

As the vertibird lowers to the ground, a massive supermutant, several stories tall lurches from its resting place. Covered in metal plates and chains, the behemoth comes up on two legs, screeching loud enough to overpower the blades of the vertibird. Danse’s ears ring, even with the sensors turned down. The horrid noise rattles in his ears. The pilot pulls them back up, out of harm’s way.

And for a moment, Danse is afraid.

But being afraid will get him nowhere. Being afraid will get him dead. So he shouts at Weiss to concentrate his fire on the behemoth, to weaken it as much as they can. The pilot needs to bring them in closer for the rounds to have any chance of puncturing the mutant’s hide. 

What they really need is a rocket launcher. But Danse was not provisioned one for this mission. Taking Fort Strong will afford them the weapons they so desperately need to finally face the Institute.

Weiss does a fine enough job of striking the behemoth, but it will not be enough.

“Shit, shit,” turning, Danse shouts at the pilot again. “Bring us down!” He pulls two grenades. “Weiss, keep firing.”

The pilot drops them another ten feet, enough that Danse can make a good faith effort of lobbing the grenades under the mutant’s feet. He drops two before reaching for another set. Exploding underneath the beast, it staggers backwards, swinging its massive paw at the vertibird. The pilot must dodge, rocking the craft sharply to the side. Danse grabs onto the rails to keep himself from falling. The drop would not hurt him, but the cries of the behemoth have attracted a swarm of smaller mutants, firing up at the vertibird. Behind the gun, Weiss should be secure. 

“Switch your fire to the smaller targets!” Danse shouts. They may be armored as well, but their skin not as tough. The smaller rounds of the minigun should be effective. He readies to throw another batch of grenades. One of them rolls too far to the left, but the second one is in a solid position to damage the primary target.

Weiss’ fire doesn’t deviate from the behemoth. “I don’t think that’s the best idea!” he calls back.

“I said change your fire, Knight!”

This time Weiss listens, moving the minigun to the pack of mutants attempting to dodge the grenades. As they run away from the behemoth, they start to scatter, Weiss desperately trying to follow their path. He has difficulty hitting them. 

A final set of grenades go off. Again, one is still too far left. But the other is all it takes for the behemoth to come down, crumpling on top of an already damaged building. A sharp spike of the remaining roof pierces through the mutant’s chest, poking out through its back and shifting the metal armored plates out of position. Checking his HUD, Danse confirms that it is critically wounded. But he waits until it has died to give the next command.

“Bring us down, all the way,” Danse orders their pilot. There are two more vertibirds that should descend as well, giving them enough bodies on the ground to finish off the smaller mutants. Smaller being a relative term.

The descent is rocky, landing onto the uneven surface below. Still, Danse jumps from the vertibird as soon as the runners hit soil, ready to take up point on the assault. Almost as soon as they have landed, mutants advance on their position. He has to make the right decision, he cannot hesitate. 

“Stay on the gun, Knight Weiss.”

This time Weiss does not argue, aiming the gun at the closest mutant and squeezing the trigger. Danse fires into the same target with his laser, dispatching the mutant as quickly as possible before moving onto the next. Three additional Knights take up positions to either side of the vertibird, each focusing on the nearest target before shifting further and further back. It’s methodical. And it works. The corpses of mutants pile up at their feet. But these are only the ones stupid enough to attack the vertibirds head on. Those who still have their wits hide yet in the rubble surrounding the depot. 

“Move out!” Danse commands, “You too, Weiss, take your rifle.”

But Weiss only has his laser pistol. With its inferior range and damage, it will not do him much good. He needs to use the rifle. Preferring energy weapons is acceptable, Danse shares this preference, but he must learn to use the more powerful rifle. 

“If you would listen!” Weiss snaps. Standing in the bay of the vertibird, the hydraulics of Weiss’ armor start hissing. No, no. He’s planning on leaving his armor behind.

“Cease at once, Knight Weiss! You are to stay in your power armor until the completion of the mission!” 

But Weiss does not listen. While there is no open fire at their current position, Danse knows that a mutant may appear at any time. Out of the power armor, Weiss will be vulnerable, to being shot and killed, or worse. There are worse things. Danse does not mean for his voice to rise, to lose his authoritative edge. 

“Please! Weiss!”

But it is too late. There is a stealthboy strapped to his wrist already. Depressing the lever, Weiss shimmers out of sight. But that will not be enough to keep him from harm. Not at all. The stealthboy’s field is not absolute, anyone can still see the way the air distorts around his body when he moves. But Weiss is already running. Danse can do nothing but chase.

Ducking into the nearest building. Weiss is lucky enough to take a mutant by surprise. Shooting it in the back six times, while Danse hits it twice more from the front. Almost as soon as the mutant is ash, Weiss is running again.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Out of his armor, Weiss is undeniably faster than Danse. He struggles to keep up, chasing behind a man who isn’t strictly there, but can be maimed, killed, captured, all the same. Danse can no longer waste his breath on arguing, he can only chase.

Again and again, Weiss executes the same maneuver, sometimes from the side, sometimes from behind, emptying laser fire in quick succession into a mutant, then vanishing. This is impossible. He will die. Maybe not today, with Danse here to protect him, to shield him despite never knowing quite where Weiss stands. But Danse’s visibility keeps Weiss as safe as possible. He is a massive, obvious target to which the mutants turn their attention, while Weiss cuts back in like a ghost.

But what of when Danse is not there? When Weiss travels with the broken down synth, most likely still under Institute control, even if it denies the accusation? When Weiss relies on the tiny mercenary with broken teeth and ragged morals, hanging on only by the leash of caps? Who will keep him from dying then?

The other Knights jog up to Danse, confirming that the area is clear. The Scribes are coordinating the operation to disassemble the behemoth’s armor and search the corpses for samples and valuable items. Nodding, Danse instructs them to continue to take orders from the lead Scribe. He and Knight Weiss will secure the weapons cache.

Rejoining the visible realm, Weiss is still breathing heavy, clutching one hand to his chest, the other wrapped around his pistol. Danse cannot reprimand him here. Not in front of the others, when the Elder is already quite suspicious of him. They need to keep up appearances, if Weiss is to stand a chance of being accepted by the Brotherhood. 

“Knight Weiss, come with me.” 

Weiss starts out behind Danse, but quickly catches up with his longer stride. Danse should march him right back to the vertibird to retrieve his armor. He should order Weiss inside. But he doesn’t, taking him to the armory directly. 

The lobby is empty, low ceilinged, and full of garbage. The mutants have been living inside, taking and wrecking as they please. But the building appears empty now. Perhaps all of the beasts spilled outside at the first blast of gunfire. In the quiet, Danse takes off his helmet.  
“What the fuck are you doing, Knight?”

Weiss glares at him. “We’re fine. We did fine. Didn’t we?”

“You will follow my orders when we are on Brotherhood assignments. Do you understand?” Danse bites. “What you did was reckless. You could have endangered everyone. You could have been killed. Order must be maintained.”

“If it is so important,” Weiss looks as if he is about to laugh, “why are you yelling at me in here? Where your soldiers cannot see?”

“Because,” Danse tries to steady his voice, he has no suitable answer, only the excuse he used to settle himself. “They would gain nothing. They already respect my commands.”

“So, you want them to believe my behavior, was your command?” he’s outright smirking. Danse should find him despicable, crafting humor from a dire situation, but he cannot. Weiss is too sincere in his joy. 

And he is not wrong.

Danse sighs in defeat, “Yes. It would be easier for us both.”

“And here I thought you were incapable of lying!” 

Scowling, Danse must ask, “Why won’t you wear the armor? Why do you hate it?”

Weiss shakes his head, his hair shifting against his shoulder, “I completed my training, but you know I didn’t serve. It doesn’t matter, that the armor is supposed to fit me now. It doesn’t fit me, you know? I’m not that man.”

But Weiss could be. He could be so much more than he is now. Danse believes in him, despite all the flaws in his character. “You can’t disobey my direct commands, Weiss. You can’t.”

Shoving his fists into his pockets, Weiss points out, “After this, we won’t be in front of your subordinates, at least for awhile.”

“No,” Danse admits, “we won’t be.”

“So, will you listen to me, defer to me, then? When no one is watching?” He tilts his head to one side.

Danse has to decide, here and how, what this will mean. And if it means Weiss joining the Brotherhood, fighting for a better world, he’ll take the bargain. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Weiss smiles, then laughs. “Okay, what should I do, Paladin?”

“We need to get the armory doors open.”

“Yes, sir,” Weiss steps behind the desk, booting up the nearest terminal.

\--

Elder Maxson is content enough with Danse’s report. The armory, and the fort, are now fully under the Brotherhood’s control. It will take some days to inventory what they have found. And the leadership is already working on determining their next target. Until then, Danse should stay close to Weiss, monitor his progress towards finding a way to breach the Institute, if that is indeed what he plans to do, and report back.

Danse confirms his orders before being dismissed.

His bones ache from having been confined in the suit most of the day. While it has been adjusted to his specifications, the frame will always limit his range of motion. Being restricted to only a few possible positions takes its toll, no matter how well trained. 

Opening the door to his quarters, he half expects Weiss to be inside, waiting. But that’s impossible, the latch is locked. The door swings open, the lights overhead coming on. And it is empty. Weiss could be anywhere. He’s allowed to be anywhere aboard the ship within reason. 

Unlacing his boots, Danse grabs his towel, intending to shower, then to sleep. He doesn’t feel tired, but there is little else he can do tonight. Before he leaves the room, he sets his alarm for the morning. 

The shower is cold and short. It’s all they can manage aboard the ship. Danse has learned to count out the seconds the water will run, exactly 100, enough to scrub and rinse and that’s all. He prefers washing during dinner hours, there’s less traffic. 

He changes into a fresh uniform quickly, before anyone else can enter the showers. His hair is still wet, his shoulders too. But there isn’t the time to effectively dry. The mess will be closing soon and any number of people may hope to use the facilities. He shouldn’t dawdle. 

On the way back to his room, fully dressed but in bare feet, Danse finally sees Weiss. He trots up towards Danse, hands in the pockets of his slacks with a Scribe on one side, a Knight on the other. The Knight laughs at something Weiss says, his cheeks turning rosy. They’ve come from the mess, no doubt. 

Weiss wears his hair down, skimming over his shoulders. The arms to his dress shirt rolled up to the elbow. He should be in uniform aboard the ship. But everyone already knows he’s an outsider. That he only half-belongs here. But he could belong here. So easily. 

“Knight Weiss,” Danse acknowledges, intending to continue on to his room. It is good that Weiss is fitting in with the others. That they find him charming, that he wants them to like him. These are all good things that will strengthen his commitment to their cause. He appears naturally outgoing, in need of companionship. Better he find it aboard the Prydwen than with the synth or the merc. 

Weiss smiles brightly back, showing a flash of straight teeth. “Danse, we missed you at dinner.”

“I had a meeting with the Elder.”

“Right, right,” Weiss turns to his companions, “I’ve got to talk to the Paladin for a second. I’ll catch up with you later.”

The Knight looks particularly put out at the suggestion, but the two continue along their path, leaving Danse and Weiss alone for the moment. 

“We could go to your quarters?” Weiss suggests.

That wouldn’t be appropriate. “Follow me, then.”

They climb the stairs in silence, other than the clicking of Weiss’ tongue inside his mouth. The jittering of his hands. It is not until they are sealed inside that they speak again, or rather, that they do not speak.

“Let me kiss you, please?” Weiss asks. But he already must know the answer. Danse already knows too. 

“Yes.”

Weiss closes the gap between them, pressing his palms to Danse’s cheeks, leaning down slightly to make their lips meet. Slow, rolling waves of lips and tongues and Weiss’ teeth as they nip and bite. Not enough to break or bruise. And for a moment Danse forgets himself. How vast the pit in his chest really is. How deep it goes, bottoming out into echoing nothingness. Because it’s easy, so easy, to pretend this is something other than lust on Weiss’ part. That while Weiss may have seduced the young Knight over a dinner of instamash and dried strips of old brahmin meat, he was really thinking of this. Of his lips on Danse’s. Of a quiet room where they can’t speak a word. It would only break the spell.


	9. Caps Can Get You Into and Out of a Lot of Terrible Situations

Grabbing hold of Weiss’ shirt, Danse drags. He drowns. Weiss can’t tell whether or not Danse even notices it, the way his body relaxes, his mouth falling open, letting Weiss crash against him. His hands twist in the fabric of Weiss’ shirt, breaking the first button loose.

Weiss raises his hands to Danse’s face, letting his palms rub against the sharp stubble, piling on since this morning, when he last shaved. He keeps Danse’s cheeks warm, keeps him softly static. The room is humming quiet, all around them. They have to be quiet too. 

Danse is rather beautiful, with his eyes closed and his hands tense. The rest of him yielding, bit by bit as Weiss eases them towards the bed. Fuck, is he beautiful. Weiss wants to consume him whole, put him in his mouth and bite him until he breaks, exploding into lights across the fucking sky, brighter than the haze that drowns them out. Two hundred years ago, it was the Boston skyline, throwing too much light pollution into the air. Now it’s the remnants of radiation that refuse to dissipate. 

They’re both polluted. Him and Danse, but it’s different agents in their blood. Corrupting them, making this foul. Weiss wants to drain the loneliness out of Danse, fill it up with his cock instead. Because, maybe then, he won’t feel so empty either. He’ll feel capable and alive. Weiss knows he can do this. He can make Danse pant his name, make his ears turn red with flush, suck his cock until he’s boneless and satisfied. He has no doubts.

The back of Danse’s legs hit the cot, but he doesn’t fold over. Still standing ramrod straight, Danse makes no move to get into bed, to spread his thick thighs and let Weiss fuck him until neither of them can see straight. But he is hard, his erection pressing into Weiss’ abdomen, even through the layers of fabric between them. Weiss snakes his hand between their bodies, brushing against it. 

“Please,” Danse keens, “stop.”

Oh.

And Weiss does, stepping back, once, twice. Until Danse’s breath goes from ragged to even. His erection is still visible through his suit. He tears at his hair. When Danse’s hand comes away. his dark hair sticks at odd angles, framing his perfect face. In the florescent lights of his room, his eyes look even paler. Like they’re not even brown anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” Weiss apologizes, sticking his hands into his pants pockets. “I thought...I don’t know what I thought.”

“No,” Danse shakes his head. “Ah, it’s not...it’s not appropriate. I’m your...sponsor.”

Danse’s confliction on the subject is clear enough. Weiss is certain Danse wants him. That if he pushes the subject, he could bed him, here and now. Could weave the right words to get him to stand at attention in front of the whole ship, Weiss on his knees, sucking him off. But Weiss won’t do it. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Weiss asks, “Should I go?”

Danse’s voice is smaller than before, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Weiss’ hands are shaking. It could be so easy, changing yeses into nos and back again. But he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

He wants to. Because Danse touches his own fingers to his lips, and Weiss wants to kiss him again, feel the heat and tremors of his body as she shudders down his want. 

“I won’t do it again.” Weiss leaves him.

\--

Weiss doesn’t expect to see Danse waiting at the vertibird, armored up and ready to depart. After last night, he assumed their working relationship had been voided. Hell, he half expected to get tossed unceremoniously off the side of the ship, crash landing somewhere on top of terminal 2, his guts staining the skylights. 

But Danse waits, his eyes trained on Weiss, all the way from the door to the bird. He has a pack already inside, and holds out his hand to take Weiss’. “Knight, where is your armor?”

Weiss shrugs his shoulders, still a bit stunned that Danse is here at all. “I have another set on the ground. I’ll leave this one up here.”

Mercifully, Danse doesn’t push the subject, letting Weiss into the vertibird first, before ordering the pilot to take them to the outskirts of the Fens. Anywhere she can find a decent landing zone will serve fine. “You wanted to go to Diamond City, correct?”

Weiss realizes that Danse may not actually be accompanying him, only getting a ride on the same vertibird. He may be returning to Cambridge. Still, being in Danse’s presence makes him slightly nervous. There’s still always time to toss him from the side of the chopper and into the Wasteland. Fewer witnesses. Though Weiss can’t imagine any of the Brotherhood quite care what becomes of him.

“Yeah, that would be great,” he folds his hands in his lap.

The ride takes time. Silence blankets over their journey. Danse keeps on looking at him, then back out the side, out over what seems like endless wreckage. Weiss wants to speak, to ask what the hell is going on, but he doesn’t want the pilot to hear, even over the spinning blades.

They set down about a mile outside the city. Any closer and the buildings are too densely packed to get a good shot at landing. Weiss grabs his pack; Danse does the same. They hop out of the vertibird and Weiss makes a show of thanking the pilot. She smiles back.

“So, as agreed,” Danse still won’t look at him. But, at least, he’s here. “I will defer to you.”

Weiss looks at Danse’s face, how little it moves as he speaks, how he can’t come to meet Weiss’ eyes. Shaking his head, he has to know, “You don’t have to be here. After last night.”

“No,” Danse starts, “I want to be. I should be. I can,” he swallows, “I can separate what happened from my duty.”

Weiss doesn’t want to be his duty. That’s not right. 

“Okay,” Weiss acknowledges, “me too.”

They wind through the wreckage, towards Diamond City. It’s weird, just weird, thinking of the stadium this way. Built up into homes and shops, people living day to day inside the confines of the walls. When he was a kid, his dad took him to see a game once a year. Neither of them were particularly attached to the sport. But they were attached to each other. He would hold his dad’s hand when he was little, stand by his side as he got older. By the time he was sixteen, he was taller than his dad, but still happy that they went, ate shitty ballpark food, and pretended like they enjoyed baseball. 

“Wait, wait,” Weiss stops them just short of the gates. “It’s going to be weird if you walk around suited up. There aren’t any threats inside the city.”

“You can’t be certain,” Danse starts to object.

Weiss shakes his head, “You said you’d listen to me. And I’m telling you, you can’t wear power armor inside.”

“It will be tampered with, if left outside.”

That’s a reasonable enough request, but one Weiss can accommodate. “My friend Piper lives near the gate. You can leave it at her place. Now, come on.” He gestures for Danse to follow him.

The Diamond City guards eye them suspiciously. But Weiss is actually sort of grateful that they do. Proves to Danse that he was right. Danse can’t go traipsing through the city walled up in his armor. It attracts too much attention and puts everyone on edge. But, because they know Weiss, the guards at least, they forgive the oddity and let them through.

Outside Public Occurrences Weiss tells Danse to strip. Danse hesitates, standing completely still for a moment. “Just out of the armor. You have something on underneath, right?”

“Ah, yes,” the hydraulics on the armor hiss as it opens up in the back. “My uniform.”

Well, the bright orange suit isn’t any less distracting. At least with Danse practically poured into it. Weiss has half a mind to tell Danse to get his ass back inside the power armor, because at least then the Diamond City residents won’t be ogling him. There’s a lot to take in, after all. The way Danse is mostly bulky muscle, broad chested, and his fucking goddamn ass. But it’s too late now, because Weiss has already convinced him the armor is inappropriate attire inside the city walls.

Weiss tries the door to the paper, then knocks when it’s closed. Piper doesn’t respond, so he fishes out his copy of the key, letting them both inside. The lights are on, so Piper probably only stepped out for a minute. 

“Let’s get you something less conspicuous to wear,” Weiss grumbles. It’s as much for his sake as it is for Danse’s. Taking the stairs two at a time, he heads up to the loft, leaving Danse in the center of the office. Rifling through his drawer in Piper’s dresser, he pulls out a flannel and a pair of jeans that hangs too loose on him. Still might not be big enough for Danse, but they’ll have to improvise for now. 

When he comes back down the ladder, Danse is still standing exactly where he left him, only Piper’s tiny frame stands before him, unwavering in her stream of questions. “So, how exactly do you know Vishnu?”

“He, the synth, and the merc answered our distress signal at the Cambridge police station.”

“Ohhhhh,” Piper drawls, “that was you. Huh.” She’s going to roast him alive. “I gotta say, you are both somewhat more, and somewhat less than what I was expecting.”

“Piper,” Weiss interjects, shoving the clothes into Danse’s chest. “I missed you. Sorry about the delay.” Turning to Danse he suggests, “Go around the corner and change. Let me know if the pants don’t fit. I’ll try to find something else.” He doesn’t mean to let his hand slide down Danse’s arm, squeezing at the largest part of his bicep. 

Danse looks utterly relieved to be excused, clutching the clothing to his chest and stepping in the direction Weiss indicates. 

Piper drops her voice low, “Holy fuck, that’s Paladin Danse?”

Gaping, Weiss asks, “How did you know his name?”

“Nick told me. Listen, now, I guess I know what ‘needing help from the Brotherhood’ is about. But do you really think this is the best idea?”

“God, fuck, Piper,” Weiss puts his hand to his forehead. “Yes, okay. Yes. They’ve made me a Knight and I have access to their resources. But could we maybe not talk about this right now,” he hisses.

Cocking her head to one side, she asks quite directly. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“No,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Do you want to be?”

Weiss rolls his eyes so hard they almost pop out of his skull, no way Piper could miss that. “Look at him.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m sorry?” Danse calls from around the partition. Both Piper and Weiss freeze. “I don’t think they fit?”

Reaching into his pocket, Weiss pulls out as many caps as he can manage, shoving them into Piper’s hands. “Go find something. We can’t have him going around in that uniform.”

“I, for one, was enjoying the view.”

“You know what I mean, Piper. Just go.”

“Why don’t you go?” she teases, biting the tip of her tongue. 

“Because,” Weiss admits, “You’ll eat him alive. And I don’t like competition.” 

Coming up on her toes, he has to lean over as well, she pecks at Weiss’ lips before heading out the door. 

Weiss knocks at the wall, trying to get Danse’s attention. “I’ve sent Piper to look for something bigger. Sorry.”

“No, ah, it’s quite alright. Only our sizes aren’t similar.”

“Yeah,” Weiss runs his fingers along the wall, feeling out the dips and bumps in the steel. “I know.”

There’s a long pause. Piper will be several minutes more. That is, if she can even find anything appropriate. 

“Hey, can I come back there?” he asks, his mouth already dry.

“Yes.”

Weiss rounds the corner. Danse is standing against one wall, his uniform neatly folded and draped over a chair. His hands are crossed over his chest. The flannel fits him well enough, though the buttons pull a bit. That one was particularly loose around Weiss’ chest, but fit alright in the shoulders. It’s long enough that it doesn’t ride up too far either. Danse’s legs are bare, leading up to the apex of his thighs. And his underwear is tight enough to be fucking criminal. Keeping Weiss away from what he so so wants to touch and taste. Fuck. He shouldn’t have looked, this is torture.

“Weiss?”

He realizes he’s been staring. And not at Danse’s face. That infraction could maybe be excusable, or at least explainable. But, no. It can’t be that easy. He still needs to win the Paladin over. Just because Danse won’t sleep with him, doesn’t mean Weiss will abandon him to the Brotherhood. It doesn’t make him a lost cause. 

“Yeah,” he looks up, making sure to keep his eyes on Danse’s, “what’s up?”

“I...haven’t been completely honest with you.”

That makes two of them. But Weiss bristles at the suggestion, as if he’s been outplayed. “What is it?” He tries to keep his trepidation from showing through his teeth. 

“I just,” Danse shakes his head. “You’ve been so kind to me. And I’m not sure I’m deserving. No one has ever…”

The door clicks open, Piper shouting, “I brought some options!” Sticking her head around, she doesn’t bother asking if they’re decent or not. She tosses three pairs of pants in the general direction of Weiss. Her eyes linger on Danse, running up and down his frame, before withdrawing, not speaking another word. 

“Right,” Weiss gets back on topic, looking over each pair of pants. He hands Danse the jeans first. “See how these fit.”

But Danse just stands there mutely, clutching the fabric against his chest. 

“Is something wrong?”

Danse starts again. “No. I just, want to apologize. For how I reacted last night.”

Taking a step closer, Weiss touches against Danse’s cheek, letting his fingers run at the junction of stubble and smooth skin. Danse’s eyes don’t waver now. 

“I was too forward,” Weiss says. Repeating his mistakes, Weiss kisses him again. Because it’s a beautiful mistake. One that makes his chest bloom with heat, that burns up his lungs, reduces his insides to soft, sweet ash. Because Danse kisses back, dropping the jeans to the floor so he can hold onto Weiss’ arms instead. His hands are so big, they wrap more than halfway around.

Danse makes a soft, panting noise. One that is not quite a protest. But Weiss expects protest, for Danse to flee again. But to taste him has made him wasted drunk on affection. He runs his fingers along Danse’s waist, letting his digits dip into the ridges of definition plotted on his abdomen. But this time, Weiss is careful not to draw lower. Instead, he focuses on the kiss, keeping Danse’s breaths locked into his, until they’re both dizzy.

“You want me to stop?” Weiss asks.

“For now,” Danse’s hands stay wrapped around Weiss’ arms. Squeezing so hard he’ll leave marks behind. Weiss doesn’t mind.

“Right okay,” Weiss bends over to pick up the jeans Danse drops. “You need pants.”

Danse’s pupils are still dilated. “Yes, of course.” He pulls on the pants, sticking his legs in and drawing them up to his waist. They seem to fit fine, enough room for his thighs. Weiss can’t help himself, reaching for Danse’s groin, tugging up the zipper for him and buttoning the jeans at the top. Danse doesn’t stop him, instead moving his hands out of the way so Weiss can finish. He pulls the flannel back down.

“You look good, like this,” Weiss observes. He forces a smile, creates the illusion that he planned this. Like he’s in control. 

Danse mumbles, “Thank you.”

\--

Nat spends the night at a friend’s to free up the other bed at the paper. Weiss insists it isn’t necessary, they can just rent rooms at the Dugout, if it’ll be a bother. With a wicked smile, Piper assures Weiss it’s not. There’s plenty of room for all three of them. But it's three of them between two beds. Well, at least he put in the offer. Makes him look the gentleman, not wanting to inconvenience Piper, or corner Danse into agreeing to something objectionable. 

Piper hurries up the stairs, leaving Danse and Weiss with the cot on the ground level. The comforter is faded floral. Nat’s mentioned several times that she hates it. He’s been on the lookout for a better one to give her as a gift, but none have turned up in Diamond City or Goodneighbor.

Pulling his shirt over his head, Weiss starts stripping down. He intends to sleep on the floor, giving Danse the cot. It seems the most reasonable option, given Danse’s general trepidation. He tosses his shirt into the corner of the room, but takes the time to fold his slacks, dropping them over the chair on top of Danse’s uniform. 

When he turns back, Danse is still dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands are folded in his lap. 

“I’m just going to get another set of sheets,” Weiss says, before heading up the ladder. 

At the top, Piper is already curled up in bed, a notepad propped against her knees. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, the cap of the pen between her teeth. 

“What, he kick you out?” She scoots towards the wall, as if to make room for Weiss. 

Opening the bottom dresser drawer, where Piper keeps extra towels and sheets, he shakes his head. “I’m going to sleep on the floor.”

“That’s just silly. If you two aren’t sharing, just stay up here.” She strikes something through in her notes. “Or are you trying to impress him with your chivalry?”

“Something like that.” Weiss leans over to kiss Piper on the cheek before heading back down.

Danse is curled up on the cot, his back to Weiss. There’s lots of space left. Well, enough to make it look like he’s tried to leave enough for Weiss to slide in behind him. He still has his singlet on, the white fabric visible over his shoulders. 

Fuck, it sure looks like an invitation. Weiss sets the folded sheets down on the chair. Climbing into bed, he wraps his arm around Danse’s waist. Danse shifts slightly, but says nothing, his hand coming to rest on top of Weiss’. That is assurance enough. Weiss kisses the back of Danse’s neck, just where his hair ends. Though he wants more, Weiss resigns himself to this. Just this. Feeling the fluttering of Danse breathe through the surface of his skin, even though there is cotton still between them, rather than flesh on flesh. He can still sense the thud of Danse’s pulse, the heat of his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an extra chapter for hitting 200 kudos! There will be another update this week on Friday. I just want to say again how much I appreciate every comment or just like, taking the time to leave kudos. It really means a lot to me that people like/tolerate my writing and my terrible ideas.


	10. We've Been Here Before (In More Ways than One)

While Weiss showers, Danse tries to make himself as unobtrusive as possible in Wright’s home. She is still upstairs, under the covers, waiting for the tiny bathroom to be free. They have enough water to rinse off, but not much else. It is more than Danse expected from the settlement. His team never made it this far. Even if they had, developed areas such as Diamond City were not on their priority list. They were to interfere with locals as little as possible. 

It feels...strange to be in civilian clothes. For the last several months, he’s known nothing but duty. Not that he is relieved of his responsibilities now, but dressed plainly, surrounded by Wright’s comforts, her dirty coffee mugs, her endless stacks of old paper, the smell of ink and whiskey, it is easy to forget this is an assignment. That this domesticity isn’t real. Isn’t for him.

Weiss emerges from the bathroom, only a towel around his waist. His hair is still damp, falling in loose curls around his shoulders. When tied back, it looks straighter. He smiles, Wright squeezing through the door behind him. 

Before arriving, Weiss had said nothing about he and Wright being intimate. But it is clear enough they are. Or have been. Last night, he did not expect Weiss to return downstairs. Danse assumed he would choose to spend the night with Wright. She is very pretty. Petite and bright-smiled. They compliment each other well. 

But Weiss did climb back down the ladder, after a rushed conversation with Wright. Danse feigned sleep, hoping that, perhaps, Weiss would act. This is Danse’s mistake in the first place, to keep pushing Weiss away, when really what he wishes is to be touched, over and over again, into some distant, absurd point of no return. 

It is wrong.

To want this. Even if Weiss wants as well. They don’t know one another. They don’t.

Weiss does not believe in the Brotherhood. He is unconvinced. Danse must do his best to show him what good they can accomplish together. 

Their bodies close now, Danse realizes Weiss has been talking to him all along. His long fingers stroke against Danse’s arm. Danse doesn’t register a single thing Weiss says. Trying to refocus, the words become distinct again.

“Are you okay?” Weiss’ eyebrows knit together.

Standing straight again, Danse insists, “I’m fine. Really.” He drops one hand to Weiss’ hip, not thinking about the fact his waist is bare. Weiss’ skin is still slightly wet. He’s done a poor job of drying off. Water speckles around their feet. 

There’s a sharp knock at the door. Weiss pecks chastely at Danse’s lips before turning to answer it. 

“Weiss, you’re not wearing any-”

But when Weiss gets the door open, Danse shuts his mouth, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

Popping his head outside, Weiss tells the visitors, “We’ve been waiting on you,” before letting the door swing open.

The synth and the merc come inside. The former asks after Piper. Weiss explains she’s still in the shower. Either they do not notice Danse, or do not care. Wright is agreeable enough. A girl from the Wastes trying to root out the injustices all around her. But her reach is severely limited, fighting her wars with words. The synth and the merc, however? Their goals are always suspect.

Weiss and the synth discuss a Doctor Amari at the Memory Den. Goodneighbor. The site had been one of the few populated areas considered worth investigating, if the opportunity arose. The establishment is suspected to house a number of advanced, neurological technologies. Pre-war memory pods, meant to relive episodes from one’s own life in sparkling detail.

Of all the memories Danse recalls, there isn’t a single one worth repeating. 

Danse realizes they’re discussing the augments that Weiss took from Kellogg. Having mentioned them only in passing to Piper, Weiss has not told Danse everything. He’s told Danse virtually nothing. He realizes that Weiss intends to access the neural information stored on the augmentations. This is what he needed help with.

“Knight Weiss...I still think we should have the Brotherhood scientists…”

But Weiss cuts him off immediately. “Danse, I told you, the Brotherhood will want to charge right in, guns blazing, once they know.” 

Indeed, they had spoken on more general terms regarding Weiss’ plan to infiltrate the Institute, to recover his son. But Danse had not known how much progress Weiss has already made. That he potentially has the memories that will take him to the Institute’s doorstep. He has them, right in his hands. 

Weiss takes both of Danse’s hands in his. It’s more affection than they should be showing here, in front of the still-silent merc and the synth. “My son is there, Danse. I have to get him out.” Bit by bit, Weiss leads him from the edge of the room, more towards the center, into the beam of florescent light that keeps the office bright. “Think about it, really think. He’ll be in danger if the Brotherhood get to the Institute first.”

“We can help you,” Danse pleads.

Weiss shakes his head, his fingers still running over the back of Danse’s hands, “You can help me.”

But Danse alone can do very little. He has made it this far because the Brotherhood have been at his back all these years. Yes, he can hold a gun, he can draw fire away from Weiss as he adopts risky tactics, he can make tactical maneuvers. But these are only small things. The Brotherhood can provide Weiss with resources, additional men, technology.

Yet, there is some truth to Weiss’ concern. Danse hates to so admit. But there is. They will look for his son, undoubtedly. But locating Shaun within the Institute’s walls cannot be prioritized. Maxson would never allow a personal matter to interfere with the elimination of Institute targets. While they may have the opportunity to find Shaun, it would not be their focus. Danse would make it his personal responsibility. But that may not be enough. 

As long as the Institute is dealt with, yes, they can take measures to secure Shaun first. 

Weiss’ thumb presses between Danse’s knuckles. 

“Okay, okay, we’ll wait, then. Until we find your son. But remember, we can help get him out, we have the resources.” This is less than ideal.

Weiss smiles, keeping their hands locked together. “You can help.”

\--

At The Memory Den, Weiss again insists that it is inappropriate for Danse to continue wearing his armor. Danse bristles at the thought. Goodneighbor is less secure than Diamond City, fewer controls on the populace. The ghoul who calls himself ‘mayor’ seems to know Weiss and the synth. But that amounts to very little. 

But Weiss is better than he at navigating social situations. And so, Danse listens, unlatching his suit and exiting. Weiss also insisted that he continue to wear civilian clothing under his armor. That it will allow him to move more freely within settlements. Danse has objections, but he did promise to obey. To follow orders. 

Taking off his hood, Danse tries to keep his attention on the conversation between the doctor and the synth. He introduces Weiss first, then down the line. When Danse steps towards the group, the synth introduces Danse as well, without his title. Danse doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

The merc swings his pack around so the synth can fish around inside it, pulling out a metal and plastic component. It appears to be Institute technology, though Danse cannot identify it by sight. The synth explains that it is one of Kellogg’s enhancements.

“A cybernetic brain augmenter? Hm...let’s go downstairs,” Amari directs them to a staircase. Leading the way, the six of them descend into the basement, where two additional memory pods are installed, along with shelves and tables lined with sterilized medical equipment.

What is it they do here? 

The Memory Den is not a mere entertainment facility. Not with this strange laboratory, tucked away, out of sight. There are x-rays pinned to the walls. Cylindrical objects embedded into human ribcages. 

His chest hurts.

Amari seems to believe Kellogg’s augmentation will only function properly if interfaced with a working brain. She suggests making use of the synth. It seems a reasonable enough solution. But the whole process makes Danse uneasy. These are sophisticated technologies in the hands of Wastelanders. “Doctor” doesn’t mean much anymore.

The synth begins taking off his coat, sitting down so the doctor can attach the contraption to the base of his skull. Danse bites his nails into his palm. They are engaging with dangerous pursuits. The synth will be entering the remnants of Kellogg’s mind. The mind of someone utterly deranged. It is not without risk. It may react poorly, violently. Danse must be ready.

“Wait!” The merc shouts as if possessed, “You’re just going to...attach part of Kellogg’s brain to Nick’s brain? This is crazy, what if it like...what if it’s a trap of some kind?” His hands shake at his sides. Vibrating all over. 

The synth gets out of the chair, grabbing MacCready by the arm. “Gimme a sec, won’t you, doc?” It leads the merc out of the laboratory and back into the stairwell. 

There is little for them to do but wait. The synth is required for the procedure to continue. Muffled voices come from the stairwell, but Danse cannot make out what they are saying. What MacCready’s investment in all this is, Danse cannot say. Mercs are not particularly known for voicing their opinions on their employer’s pursuits. 

Danse walks along the walls of the lab, appraising each item best he can. They’re tools for surgery in some cases. Bone saws, med-x, needles, tubing. But also wire cutters, pliers, glue.

Synths. 

Amari works on the brains of synths.

Danse’s chest constricts again.

The synth returns, smiling faintly, urging everyone that, “Robert is fine. He’ll wait outside.”

Weiss is satisfied enough with that as an answer to the merc’s strange behavior. Clapping the synth on the shoulder, he asks if they're good to continue. The synth assures him that they are. Amari’s fine hands go back to work, attaching the augment to the synth’s skull. Her long fingers have worked on many synths. But how many? How many abominations masquerading as men have lain across these tables? How many had their memories replaced with lies? Even one is too many.

But Weiss needs to know what Kellogg knew. It is their only way to set this world right.

“Now,” with the synth secured in the lounger, its yellow eyes turned off, Amari turns to Weiss. “If you could take the second lounger.”

What?

“What? No!” Danse must intercede. It was not made clear that Weiss would be entering Kellogg’s memories as well. That he would subject himself to the broken thoughts of a psychopath, walk the nervous system of a degenerate. This is not a concession that Weiss should make. Surely the synth can produce adequate results without Weiss assuming risk.

Weiss is already climbing into the lounger, curling his legs towards his chest in an effort to fit comfortably inside. But his knees stick out too far, he tries to find a place for them. “If this will get us into the Institute, I have to do it.” Weiss’ eyes lock with Danse’s. “You know I'm telling the truth.”

“It doesn't have to be you.” And for a blinding moment, Danse considers offering himself. Although the mere idea of being encased inside the capsule is terrifying. To be closed up, out of control of his own mind, invaded by technologies he can't hope to understand. Danse can think of many things more frightening, but he is a man who has seen many horrific things.

He's ready to haul Weiss out of the lounger, march him back to the Prydwen where they can find another way. A better way. As Danse reaches, Weiss bats his hand away. “Wait outside with MacCready.”

Danse freezes. What is Weiss saying? His head spins with possibilities. Danse is no longer wanted here. Wait, no, the mission. 

Weiss smiles, “Piper will get you when we’re done. You don't need to watch.”

“But,” Danse can't come up with a reasonable justification for why he must stay. Other than he wants to. He wants to watch over Weiss, make sure he is safe, that this procedure does not ruin him. 

“Listen,” Weiss insists, “go.”

And Danse does listen, his feet moving on their own accord, shuffling out of the room and into the stairwell. MacCready sits on the second step, his legs folded towards his chest. He looks very small. He is small. Short bones and no muscle, emaciated. Easily missed. Danse can see clearly why the merc has taken to sniping as a means of offence. He would easily be crushed underfoot if drawn too closely to the front lines.

Danse feels as if he should say something to account for his presence, “They told me to wait outside.”

“You tried to say something too?” MacCready laughs at him. 

He does not wish to divulge everything. But he wants to make his concerns known. At least then, someone will know he tried to interject. “There’s so much that we don’t know about how those loungers work. Plugging in the synth was an acceptable solution. Putting Knight Weiss at risk, I couldn’t stand by and say nothing.”

“You call him that in bed too?” MacCready bites, his lips curled into a mocking smile. 

Danse stumbles, feeling his face flush. How could MacCready know? Only, it’s not strictly true. “We’re not, nothing, no,” Danse regrets the denial as soon as it leaves his mouth. He does not know what Weiss believes them to be. Only, he did sleep with his chest pressed to Danse’s back, kissed his neck over and over until Danse became hard beneath the sheets. But Weiss did not try to initiate further intimacy. Danse is thankful for that. But also terribly concerned. 

MacCready continues, “He tries it with everyone. He might not mean anything by it, if you’re not interested, just tell him.”

The words feel like ice along Danse’s spine, a column of cold branching out to frost his ribs. Weiss tries “this” with everyone. There is nothing special here. Danse should have expected as much, with the easy, charming way Weiss smiles. With the way he casually touches Wright. How affectionate he is with everyone in his orbit. And there are many, many people who wish to get close to Weiss. How could they not?

Still, Danse remembers the bloom of warmth against the back of his neck.

“I’m his sponsor. It’s not appropriate.” He wraps his answer in terms of duty. Weiss is his subordinate. Danse would do well to remember this. But he does not think for a moment that the merc believes him. Not one word.

\--

“FUCK, FUCK!”

Danse does not hesitate, rushing back into the laboratory, crashing through the door. Raising his fist, Weiss goes to smash his hand into the concrete wall. Danse is quick, but Wright is closer, grabbing hold of Weiss’ arm. But she cannot be strong enough to impede him. Yet, as soon as her fingers wrap around his wrist, he stops, utterly arrested by her touch.

“I need a fucking cigarette,” Weiss curses, sticking his hands into his pockets. 

“What is happening?” Danse’s voice shakes. Something must have gone wrong in the lounger.

“Nothing,” Weiss assures. His hands are still in his pockets. Danse can hear the pills rattle inside their tin. Something went wrong. He just knows it. Weiss continues, “Just. I don't feel like we’re any closer. The synths...they use teleportation.”

Yes. Danse suspects as much. Though he has not shared his suspicions with anyone. To have external confirmation is such a relief. That his observations watching synth behavior can be confirmed. 

Weiss explains that there is a single lead. A man named Virgil, who defected from the Institute. Danse has never heard of a human able to leave. Already he suspects that this Virgil may be a synth, a distraction. But synth or not, he may be able to lead them to the gates of the Institute. To help them in retrieving Shaun. 

“He's hiding. Somewhere called, ‘the Glowing Sea,’” Weiss shakes his head. 

They work out that Weiss, the synth, and Danse will depart for the Glowing Sea after a resupply in Diamond City. They must return to the settlement in any case to retrieve Weiss’ power armor. Crossing the Sea would be impossible without the radiation protection the suit affords. The synth will not be affected. 

Wright objects to Danse’s inclusion, though he is logically the most fit human to accompany Weiss to the Sea. She accuses him of being an informant to the Brotherhood, that this could be his only interest in Weiss. Danse wishes she were right.

“Oh, lay off the ‘Knight’ crap. Whatever, it's up to Vishnu anyway,” Piper throws up her hands. She is not happy.

It is up to Weiss. So it is decided that Danse goes. 

\--

As they walk back to Diamond City, Weiss falls into a comfortable pace beside Danse. In his armor, he’s an inch or so taller than Weiss. Out of it, nearly three inches shorter. Weiss keeps one hand in his pocket, the other on his cigarette. 

“She’s only worried about me, you know?” Weiss starts, “it’s not that she dislikes you.”

Danse is no fool, “She does dislike me.”

Piper is momentarily occupied with the synth and MacCready. 

Weiss shakes his head, “She doesn’t know you. Only, the Brotherhood doesn’t have the best reputation around here? The arrival of the Prydwen has everyone on edge.”

Danse has to concede that the occupation of the Commonwealth has not quite gone according to plan. “It is less than ideal.”

Laughing Weiss responds, “It always is.”


	11. Only Make Promises You Never Intend on Keeping

Power Noodles is already packed by the time they arrive back in Diamond City, the dinner crowd thick around the circular stall. Weiss pushes his way up to the bar, counting out caps to put in front of Takahashi. The robot starts distributing noodle cups that Weiss passes around, making sure everyone has one in their hands before fishing out more money for colas. He wishes that Takahashi were able to open a tab, letting his companions order as much as they want, but that’s a lot to ask from a broken protectron. 

Taking the last bowl for himself, he tells Piper to let him know if anyone needs anything else. He can feel the scalding broth through the plastic of the bowl. It actually feels kind of nice, loosening his joints. 

There’s nowhere to sit, but he’s also hesitant to leave with his meal, in case he’s still needed. He wants to depart for the Glowing Sea tonight if they can. They should be able to. There’s so much time he lost already, going up to the Prydwen first, instead of coming back to Diamond City. He can only hope that good relations with the Brotherhood will pay off in the long run. 

Though, the dividend of Danse isn’t so bad a start.

Standing away from the others, his gaze flickering between his bowl and Takahashi, Danse hasn’t actually touched his food. Weiss walks over, careful not to spill broth over his hands. He’s holding onto his chopsticks with his teeth, his cola in his other hand. Sticking the cola onto an upturned cinderblock, he takes the chopsticks from his mouth. 

“Something wrong with the food?” he asks. 

Danse looks back at Takahashi, and this time, his gaze holds. “I’m evaluating that protectron. It may be a Chinese spy. I am...unsure.”

Nearly choking on his noodles, Weiss manages to get out, “You realize, for one, Takahashi speaks Japanese?”

Danse shrugs his shoulders. Perhaps Danse cannot tell the difference. Even before the war, people were ignorant.

“And two, unless I missed something major, we’re not still at war with China, are we?” Weiss is fairly certain he would have noticed by now. But there aren’t even working cars. Sure, there’s heavy artillery laying about, but there’s no way any of it is still aimed at China. He hasn’t seen anyone but the Brotherhood with air capabilities. 

Fuck. Oh no.

Putting his noodles on the cinder block, next to his cola, he grabs Danse by the shirt sleeve, pulling him into one of the alleyways. 

“Danse, you need to tell me something right now,” his hands are shaking. “The Brotherhood of Steel, they’re not still at war with the Chinese, are they?” 

“I have limited knowledge of West Coast operations,” Danse explains. “But it is our duty to be vigilant against threats. And the Chinese have proven to be adversarial in the past. There have been multiple reports of pre-War ghouls who still express sympathy with the Chinese position. There may be conflict in the future.”

“Fuck, me.” Weiss is stunned. Just, he doesn’t know how to process this. The idea that two hundred years in the future, there still may be nothing worse than being labeled a Communist. He’s not interested in war. He’s not. “But there’s nothing now, right?”

“No, Weiss.”

“Eat your dinner,” Weiss swallows, “Takahashi is not a spy.” His words are without inflection. 

Danse follows him back out of the alley. By now his noodles are cool. It doesn’t bother him terribly, winding the strands around his chopsticks. Danse uses a fork to eat his. But at least he’s eating. Finishing up, Weiss is ready to get moving. 

He calls over to Val, “We’re leaving in thirty, okay?” That should give them enough time to load their packs, and for him to get a fusion core into his armor.

At a distance, he can’t make out Val’s features well, but the detective yells back, “Okay!” He’s gathered up at the other side of the bar with Piper and MacCready. His hand goes to MacCready’s hip, asking him something. 

Weiss doesn’t tell Danse to follow him, but the Paladin does in any case, quickening his steps to stay in line with Weiss. He should really check his armor first. Make sure the damn thing still works. It should. Fuck, he hates putting it on.

Back behind Publick Occurrences, there’s a sheet thrown over the suit. Weiss pulls it off. He can already feel Danse’s disapproval. While the suit is intact, it’s a T-45, rather than the T-60 that the Brotherhood provisioned. He mutters, half under his breath, that he was trained on the T-45. But that’s a lousy excuse, they all work the same, only some minor HUD adjustments between runs. On the inside, they’re mostly the same.

The T-45 is fine though, and it’ll fight the rads just as well as the T-60. From a lockbox against the wall, he pulls out a fresh fusion core. He’ll need to take two or three more to make sure the trip goes off without trouble. “Do you need any?” He asks Danse. When Danse answers in the negative, he locks the box back up.

“Your other suit-”

“This one is fine,” Weiss grits his teeth, shoving the fusion core in. Sticking his hands back into his pockets, he pulls out his cigarette pack, lighting one while he waits for the power armor to come online. 

Watching the armor churn, Weiss’ stomach does too. “Hey, go get ammunition, won’t you? Just, as many e-cells are in stock? Since all three of us use them. Anything else you think we might need.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “I’ve got open credit lines at all the shops, so just, whatever.”

Danse hesitates, his mouth opening and closing. But Weiss doesn’t want to hear it, still disturbed by the potential that the Brotherhood would bomb the fuck out of China, again, if given the chance. That Danse thinks there are Chinese spies among them. Worse yet, is the possibility that Danse is the right, and Weiss is only being naive. 

“Go, we don’t have much time.”

Grabbing his pack, Danse heads back to the marketplace. Weiss will tell Piper to settle up his tabs tomorrow, if she has time. Most of his caps are stashed with her anyway. Once Danse is gone, Weiss circles back around the building to use the front door. The armor should be fine. It at least turns on.

Piper leans against her desk, arms crossed over her chest, a pen behind her ear. She looks good enough to eat. She always does. Weiss considers how much time he has, if he can get her back to the desk, her pants off, and spread her thighs. It would be enough to hear her cry out as he licked her open. But Danse will be back any moment now. 

“You’re leaving, again,” she says.

Stepping forward, he plays with the ends of her hair. “Yeah, have to. This Doctor Virgil, he’s our only lead.”

“And you’re leaving me behind, again,” this time her words bite.

Weiss shakes his head, “The radiation, there’s no way.”

Sighing, Piper throws up her hands. “It’s always something, isn’t it?”

“You know the radiation would kill you,” Weiss’ eyes narrow.

“Then why couldn’t I go to find Kellogg?”

“Because, he was a dangerous mercenary working for the Institute,” he states plainly.

“Yeah?” She snarls, “And taking some random merc you picked up in Goodneighbor was better?”

“I thought you liked MacCready?”

Piper scoffs, “I do! I like him a lot. But that doesn’t change the fact you’re always handling me with kid gloves. What? Am I not good enough? Not strong enough? Because I’ll have you know, I fended for myself just fine before your ass thawed out.”

“I’m only trying to--”

“What? Tell me what you’re trying to do, Vishnu?”

“Protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she hisses. And her face contorts in such a beautiful way he wants to kiss her until she stops fighting. He starts to lean down, wondering if she’ll hit him first, or kiss back. He’ll accept either, to be perfectly honest.

The door creaks open and Weiss turns. Piper looks down towards her feet. Whatever that moment was, it’s gone. Danse stands in the doorway, his pack over his shoulder. “They didn’t have much.”

“Right,” Weiss steps away from Piper, forcing a smile. “Piper, if you could make sure they get paid. Who did you get the rounds from?” he asks Danse.

“The weapons shop.”

“Okay, just, take care of my tab with Arturo if you get a chance. If not, I’ll settle when we get back from the Glowing Sea.”

“Yeah,” Piper’s voice sounds hoarse, “sure thing.”

Weiss grabs his pack from the floor before following Danse outside.

\--

When Weiss tries to breathe, there is no air. Only the endless choking of his stomach. His skin trying to peel from his bones. But, perhaps, he only feels the stretch because his head's on backwards, isn’t it? He’s hot and trembling, staggering forward.

They rush into the cave. The Children of Atom said that Virgil should be here. And that he may not be particularly welcoming to visitors. But the radiation inside must be less than it is out in the open. And Weiss can feel his body dying.

The rad-x wore off an hour ago.

He stumbles to the floor, ripping off his helmet. His palms flat to the ground, he retches between them, everything inside of him scrambling out. Oh, fuck, but it’s hot. It’s so fucking hot inside the suit. He blinks, then blinks again, hoping his eyes will focus. They weren’t this fucked up before, with the spaces in between his fingers going all blurry. 

Slowly, his vision settles, though the fever across his skin does not. 

“Shit, fuck, shit, “Val, fuck.” He gags again, though all that comes up now is a thin patch of saliva and acid. His diaphragm heaves, the pain resonating through his chest. It won’t still. And then the white light behind his eyes kills his vision again. Fucked. He’s so fucked. Weiss tries to keep his weight on his hands, to not fall forward into the pile of sick.

Val, thank fuck, shoves a couple of pills towards Weiss, along with a bottle of water to help them go down. Whether or not they’ll stay down is another matter entirely. 

“We need to get you on an IV,” Val mutters. Weiss is in no state to disagree, but right now he’s just got to focus on breathing, not choking the thick radaway pills back up. “Take these too,” Val passes him another set of pills. This time, it’s mentats. Fuck, Val is too good to him. He shoves down those too, chasing the chalky red tablets with more water. 

“Thank fucking god,” Weiss coughs.

Val talks to someone down in the bowels of the cave. At first, it doesn’t register, because Danse, where is Danse? He can’t be further inside. So, Virgil. Val must be talking to Virgil. As the mentats take hold, Weiss’ perception sharpens, both his eyesight and his hearing. But he still feels nauseous. 

“We’ve just come to ask some questions, Dr. Virgil!” Val shouts. Then in a low voice, “Danse, get the fuck out of that armor.”

“If he attacks-”

“He will definitely feel threatened with two heavily armed men in power armor standing in his fucking doorway. And right now I can't get Weiss out of this suit. So climb the fuck out as a Goddamn olive branch.”

Yes, Weiss has to get out of the goddamn suit. He has to get out as soon as possible, before it crushes his chest, breaking up his ribs. He doesn’t want to die like this. 

“Danse, please,” Weiss urges. He tries to push himself up off the ground, but even with the augmented strength of the power armor, he can’t yet make it. 

Frowning, Danse unlatches his suit. Weiss has to look away, try and settle his stomach again. The radaway should be working, but they’re slow to dissolve. Not like the instant hit of the mentats. He needs an IV of the stuff if he’s going to feel any better. If his bones are going to stop itching.

“What do you want?” Virgil questions. None of them can move past the heavy machine turrets until Virgil deactivates them. They’ll be pumped full of holes if they move any closer. 

“Information, just information. We’re trying to break into the Institute, we need your help.” Weiss tries to stand again, this time Danse coming to help him off the ground, grabbing his arm with both hands and hoisting.

Virgil replies, “Into the Institute? That's impossible.”

“Says the only man to ever make it out,” Weiss argues.

Once he’s standing, there’s still the matter of getting Weiss out of the armor. Hitting the switch to throw open the back is easy enough, but he’s not certain he can stand without the metal cage holding him aloft. He feels hands come to his hips, a chest against his back, slowly dragging him out of the armor. Danse holds him upright while he regains his composure. After a moment, he’s able to turn, supporting his own weight.

“Dr. Virgil, this is Pa-”

Weiss shakes his head vigorously, mouthing “no” sharply in Danse’s face. Virgil can’t know that they’re affiliated with the Brotherhood. There’s no way he’ll take well to that information.

Danse starts again, “My name is Danse. My friend is ill. May we please come past the turrets?” Picture of politeness. 

“How many of you are there?”

“Just us three,” Val responds. “Two men and a synth.” 

There’s a long pause. Weiss has to rest his weight on Danse again, grabbing hold of his sturdy shoulder. He blinks, then blinks again, happy enough that he can still see. That the room isn’t spinning. the radaway must be starting to work. Danse’s eyes are wide as they wait. His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything.

“The synth and the sick man may come. I want the other man in front of those turrets. As insurance.”

Weiss doesn’t want to have to make Danse do this. He doesn’t want to put him at risk. To say words, sweet or sharp, that will make Danse obey. There’s a knot in his chest where those words go, calcifying.

“I'll do as you say.” Danse calls back.

“Step in front of the turrets, right there in the center, and I'll let the other’s pass.”

Taking Weiss’ hand in his, Danse squeezes. His lips are still parted, softly. But he’s silent. Instead, Danse’s eyes move to Val’s, “Please, take care of him.” 

“Sure, toaster.”

Weiss tastes the bile in the back of his throat. He has to swallow it back down. Leaning on Valentine, they start down the tunnel to meet this Dr. Virgil. 

A shotgun stays trained on them as they hobble into the tall-ceilinged, well-lit cavern. Weiss sees the shotgun first, then the hulking supermutant holding it. Shit. Fuck. Virgil wears glasses, just at the tip of his nose, the frames stretched to the point of breaking around his massive head. 

“Holy shit,” Weiss breathes.

“Is this going to be a problem?” Virgil sneers.

If he had the energy, Weiss would laugh. It’s not fear though, or panic he feels when he first sees Virgil, but a strange sort of elation, a curiosity. Sure, the supermutants terrify Weiss, but they intrigue him too. Like, the distillation of man to his purest form. When they’re nothing but beasts battling out with fists for supremacy. There’s something poetic about that.

And there’s something even more startling about Virgil, how he’s bursting at the seams and at once utterly contained. He’s a scientist still, even when he looks the monster. But to laugh would be an insult. Weiss doesn’t have the constitution to explain himself at the moment. And they need what Virgil knows. 

“What do you need from me, Virgil? Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” Weiss offers.

Val works around him, jabbing the IV needle into his hand, where the vein is the thickest.

\--

Once Weiss has his instructions: bring back a Courser chip, and please, look for the serum, he’s ready to head back out to the Sea. Val, being the good man that he is, tries to convince him to rest awhile longer. But the IV bag runs dry and there’s no reason to wait. Weiss pulls the needle out of his hand himself, pocketing it carefully. 

They bid Virgil goodbye, saying they’ll be back soon. The look on Virgil’s face tells Weiss how he doesn’t believe a word. He doesn’t think Weiss can pull this off. But there isn’t another option. At least now, there’s a plan. No one has ever had a plan to take the Institute, not even the Brotherhood of Steel.

Danse waits before the turrets, his shoulders slumping. It’s been nearly two hours he’s had to wait, while the IV bag emptied, flushing Weiss of radiation. When Danse tilts his head up, seeing Weiss return, he smiles. 

Fuck. And Weiss feels so light. Like he could float away, only the cave ceiling to stop his ascent. All because Danse is happy to see him. Relieved that he's alive, no doubt.

Weiss steps forward, wrapping his arms around Danse’s waist and holding him, dipping down to rest his chin against Danse’s shoulder. Through every point of contact, Danse is warm, thudding. He feels Danse’s arms wrap around him too. Pulling back, Weiss kisses the side of Danse’s head. “You were worried?” he teases.

“Of course,” Danse responds.

Laughing, Weiss knows Danse would be cross if he were to kiss him on the lips in front of Val, so that will have to wait for later. Right now, he's content enough to hear the quiet concern in Danse’s voice, the pressure of his hands against his back.


	12. Trebuchet

Though the synth encourages Weiss to stop for the night, he refuses. Weiss insists they can make it back to Diamond City without resting. But hour by hour he wears down. Danse does too. And they stop at the next decent shelter, a house with three walls instead of four, and half a roof.

Full of bloatfiles, the house has to be cleared before they can rest. Weiss can do little to bring down the fat little abominations, so he waits, while Danse and the synth explode the bugs with quick moving laserfire. While that strews foul, sweet smelling gunk across the floor, they would be unable to rest with them still buzzing about.

Weiss takes the stairs two at a time to check the second floor. Following on his heels, Danse leaves the synth behind. It’s already settling in on the couch to keep watch through the night, its yellow eyes the brightest light in the room.

There is a double bed with a dirty mattress and no sheets. Better than they could have expected. Weiss exits his armor before crouching down to search the dresser. He pulls out bobby pins, a stash of caps, but no bedding. In his pack he has a blanket; Danse has one too. That’s more comfort than many people have. 

Throwing his blanket over the mattress, Weiss says, “We’ll use yours to cover.”

Danse stays in his armor a moment more. It will be colder once he exits. He waits until Weiss strips off his shirt, the ring around his neck settling back against his sternum. Weiss leaves his slacks on as he climbs onto the mattress.

“Aren’t you tired?” Weiss asks. The light is long gone, but Weiss’ pipboy casts the half-room in half-glow. 

Danse unlatches his suit, shivering as the cold air hits his back. Weiss is already shivering. He should have left his shirt on. Pulling his blanket from his pack, Danse throws it to Weiss so he can cover up before doing anything else. Danse unlaces his boots, carefully lines them up at the foot of the bed. He’s stalling. He’s always stalling.

Why?

Because Weiss is reckless. If he continues on like this, he is going to burn out. Danse does not know if it will be a brilliant explosion, or a slow, quiet death. But Weiss will cease to exist. And then what? Danse will be alone. Again. 

He is trying. He is trying to keep Weiss tethered to this planet, to keep him from spinning out, breaking the grip of gravity. But Danse can only do so much. Fuck, he wants to do more. He wants to make Weiss stay. 

Taking off his shirt as well, Danse crawls under the covers. He catches Weiss’ smile before he toggles the pipboy light off. The flannel blanket is still a bit cold, not yet warmed by body heat. Weiss slides towards Danse’s body, his hand coming to Danse’s cheek. They’re chest to chest and warming quickly. Weiss’ more hollow frame butting up against Danse’s with every breath. 

“Let me kiss you?” Weiss whispers. “You can tell me when to stop?”

Danse’s hand falls at the junction of Weiss’ hip and waist. Worrying his thumb over Weiss’ hipbone, he tries to coax without speech. “Yes.” That much, Weiss needs to hear that much before he’ll close the gap between their lips. But this time, Danse meets him, pushing back into Weiss’ mouth until he laughs. And suddenly, Weiss’ hands are everywhere, skimming against Danse’s arms at first, snaking around to his back, then forward again, until his palms are pressed flat to Danse’s chest. Danse feels giddy from the lack of air, the tiredness too.

Weiss pulls back, his breath still hot. “You’re fucking perfect everywhere.” He rolls his hips so their covered groins brush against one another. Danse hardens further as the evidence of Weiss’ arousal presses against him. Hot even through the layers. Weiss growls, “Want you so bad.”

But he doesn’t move to undress himself, or Danse. His fingers play at Danse’s nipples, twisting and pulling at the already hardened flesh. Ducking his head under the blanket, he starts biting at them instead. A light scrape of teeth at first. Oh, fuck, but it feels so deliciously sharp. Danse reaches under the blanket, curling his hands around Weiss’ shoulders as he works with his mouth and tongue. Biting his lip, Danse attempts to stay quiet. The synth is downstairs, on guard. But Weiss’ mouth is hot, his tongue always in motion.

Pulling away, Weiss blows against the slickened flesh of Danse’s nipple, laughing quietly when Danse shudders. “The things I could do to you.”

Weiss pops his head back up above the blanket, static sticking in his long hair. Kissing Danse again, he resumes teasing with his hands, always staying above Danse’s waist, though he grinds between Danse’s thighs with one bony knee. They’re quiet for a long time, only the wet noises of their kissing. Danse stops thinking, starts reciprocating, biting at Weiss’ lips as well, moaning softly into his mouth. What to do with his hands, Danse is unsure. He starts stroking them up and down Weiss’ exposed side, concerned, yes, that he can feel the ridges of Weiss’ ribs, but elated he can feel his pulse as well. 

Danse can feel Weiss’ leg shaking between his thighs, an erratic vibration pressing against his erection. He does not know if Weiss is doing it on purpose, or if they are merely tremors, like he so often has. But more than that, the friction spirals through Danse, straight to his core. He grinds against the leg as Weiss continues to tug at his shoulders, scratch at his back. 

“You could come like this, couldn’t you?” Weiss teases. “Bouncing your cock against my leg?” His voice rasps against Danse’s neck. With Weiss’ hands at Danse’s hips, he starts pulling Danse forward, pushing him back, helping him rake against Weiss’ leg. “Are you going to show me how much you want this?” Weiss’ short-cut nails bite into Danse’s skin. 

The pressure builds in Danse’s abdomen. He’s still trapped in his pants, straining against the zipper. He can feel the pricks of metal teeth, or at least, he thinks he can. Faintly, he knows the springs in the mattress are creaking as they rub against each other. But Weiss is still controlled, urging Danse to thrust against him. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Weiss’ lips refuse to stop, always speaking or kissing, trying to drown Danse in lust and affection. “I can’t wait to see you with my cock in your mouth.” 

Danse shudders, white sparking behind his eyes as he comes. He can’t hear himself, but he can feel the noise in his throat. Just as soon, Weiss’ mouth is over his, eating up his noises, taking them as nourishment. The front of his pants are soaked with his come, blooming wet across his crotch. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Weiss rolls onto his back, hands at the fly of his slacks. Yanking them open, he pulls his cock out, splaying his legs slightly. Weiss works himself in his hand, sliding his curled palm over his erection, cursing and babbling all the while. “Was it good for you? Fuck. Did you like it?”

Danse licks his lips, too stunned to move, but he can manage words. At least one word, the one Weiss likes best, “Yes.”

“Good, good.” Weiss’ eyes are screwed shut. 

Danse’s hands shake. Is he supposed to? But he’s not sure. If it would be like touching himself? Or maybe Weiss wants his mouth...but he doesn’t know how. He’s never.

But Weiss groans, low and satisfied, spurting against his chest. His hand slows, eyes fluttering open again. His lashes are thick and dark. Danse has noticed before. 

They lay in silence a long moment. Danse listens to Weiss breathe. Forgets to breathe himself. At least his hands have stopped shaking. He has never been so close to another person, and still the inch of space between their bodies feels cavernous. 

Weiss leans over the side of the bed, grabbing up his shirt and using it to wipe his abdomen down. He kicks away his pants as well, into a crumpled pile in the corner. “Are you alright?” He curls his body back towards Danse’s, kissing his forehead first, then pecking at his lips. One hand trails down the middle of Danse’s chest. “Do you have another pair of pants? I’m sorry, we should have gotten you out of those. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll have to wear my uniform tomorrow.”

“Okay, yeah,” Weiss’ hands still. His breathing drops. He’s drifting off into sleep, his arm thrown over Danse’s waist. 

\--

When Danse wakes in the morning, he’s alone. And for a moment, he is afraid. Afraid that Weiss has slipped between his fingers. But as the silent moment breaks, Danse can hear Weiss downstairs, talking to the synth. 

He rolls his soiled pants into a neat bundle to tuck into his pack. Pulling on his uniform, he replays the events of last night. How warm he felt, how contented. How they held each other, panting in the dark. 

But in the light of day, Danse is still anxious. A knot of worry in his stomach about what is yet to come.

Downstairs, Weiss eats from an open can of beans. He’s still shirtless, his slacks sitting low on his hips as he converses with the synth. He gestures as he speaks with the fork in his hand. The pipboy knocks into the tin when he gets too excited. 

“Danse! You’re up.”

“You could have woken me,” Danse offers. Really, he should not have overslept. 

Weiss shoves another forkful of beans into his mouth before setting down the can. “No, no I mean, if you were tired you needed the rest. I’m an asshole for pushing you this hard.”

That’s hilarious, in a way. And Danse laughs, short and sharp. Because he’s the trained combatant, the one who has been in the Commonwealth for months, fighting not only to survive, but to make progress. And even though his mission did not go entirely according to plan, they did endure. And Weiss is a pre-War relic, meant to stand in front of an audience of jurors rather than beat back mutants. Yet he is the one who is concerned that Danse may be tired. “Do not worry, I’m fine.”

Weiss smiles, “Eat something and we’ll get moving.”

While Danse isn’t hungry, he listens, opening a box of Fancy Lads he finds in the cupboards. It’s not exactly nutritious, but it’s the most appetizing thing in the little ruined house. He’ll be able to have a more reasonable meal when they reach Diamond City.

\--

But they do not make it to the settlement, Weiss pulling the synth aside just as they reach the Fens. Weiss speaks first, too quiet for Danse to hear. The words are not for his ears. The synth objects in some way, but Weiss repeats himself until the machine is placated. 

Coming back to Danse, Weiss says they should head back to the Prydwen. Danse’s heart rate quickens. He is certain that Weiss is beginning to come around. That he sees how the Brotherhood can be a resource, instead of a liability. “Yes, of course. We can get a vertibird from the Cambridge Station.”

Weiss lights a cigarette and tells Danse to lead the way. Once they reach the station, they can radio for a bird to pick them up, if one is not already there. They can report what Weiss has learned about the Courser chip to Elder Maxson and Proctor Ingram. Certainly they will both have ideas regarding how to defeat a Courser and how to build the teleporter. 

“Listen, Danse,” Weiss begins. Danse isn’t certain what Weiss is to say, but he is filled with hope nonetheless. “Please, don’t tell anyone about Virgil. Not where he is, not that he’s a-” Weiss stops suddenly, “that he knows the synths use teleportation. Please.”

Danse doesn’t understand. They can gain the most by being completely up front. “Then why are we going to the Prydwen at all?” he argues.

“Because,” Weiss explains, “I need to figure out who can help us, and who will only take advantage of what we know.”

“Weiss,” Danse is becoming more and more frustrated with their lack of progress, “these are my brothers and sisters, they are not taking advantage of you.”

Weiss stops; Danse keeps on walking several steps more before grinding to a halt. The loudest noise between them is the hum of their armor. Weiss’ is louder, the set older and ill-kept. 

“You are the one they are exploiting, Danse. Can’t you see?” he shakes his head. “We...we shouldn’t talk about this now. Just, please. Do this, for me? Don’t tell them yet. And I promise you, I will help the Brotherhood, but not at the expense of Na-Shaun.”

Danse should say no. That Weiss is being ridiculous, paranoid. Paranoia is one of the side effects of prolonged mentat use. Danse knows all the side effects, catalogued into straight, neat rows in his mind. Every potential consequence of everything he’s ever swallowed in the hopes of making himself a better soldier, a better man. None of them have ever worked.

“You’re being unreasonable, Weiss.”

“No,” he smiles, “I’m not. And you know it too.”

For a moment Danse has a flash of uncertainty, replaying Maxson’s initial order to dispose of Weiss over in his head. But the Elder was easily convinced to spare Weiss. Danse explained, quite reasonably, what an asset Weiss would be to their operations here in the Commonwealth, and upon further consideration, Maxson agreed. 

But now his standing orders are to stay at Weiss’ side, to assist in his endeavors towards breaching the Institute, yes. But also to observe and report. To make sure he does not act against the Brotherhood’s interests.

Danse is uncertain. Because Weiss spins words more easily than he can aim a gun. His aim in argument is perfect. Knowing exactly how to make Danse hesitate. Because, yes, Danse knows Weiss isn’t being unreasonable at all. Because the order may still come down that Weiss is to be eliminated for the good of the Brotherhood’s mission.

And Danse would have to follow it.

He would have to.

In his thoughts, Danse misses Weiss stepping closer, the wheeze of his expiring armor. He puts his gauntleted arms on Danse’s shoulders, trying to bring them as close as they can be still suited up. “I will not make you turn against them Danse. But I can’t turn against myself either. I can’t turn against the Minutemen, and my friends, and everything we’ve already accomplished. And I want you here too. I want that so much, Danse.”

“I...will not tell the Elder, but you should.”

“I will,” Weiss assures, “when it’s time.”

\--

Elder Maxson asks Danse about Weiss and his operations. Danse reports what he can. Omitting rather than lying. He is a poor shot. His stamina appears unusually high, he sleeps very little. He is quite set upon reaching the Institute and retrieving his son, but not at the cost of the Commonwealth. He believes that the Minutemen are bringing stability to the area, and is determined to keep helping them. He has no contacts among the Railroad.

“You’re certain? You mentioned before that one of his companions is a synth,” Maxson tops off Danse’s glass. He doesn’t like the whiskey much, but he is in no position to refuse. There is no official report of Weiss’ activities to be made. This discussion is between himself and the Elder alone. An appraisal of their newest recruit, and the changes he may stir down below, across the Wastes. 

Maxson’s quarters are no bigger than his own. No more personalized, though he may have a few more items strewn about. The Elder is still young. Danse could not imagine shouldering such responsibility at that age. Over the last year, Maxson has grown another inch. He may yet grow to be as tall as Danse, though with each passing year, it is increasingly unlikely. 

“Weiss’ synth claims no knowledge of Institute operations. It claims to be a cast off, refuse.”

“And what do you think?”

“That it is unlikely for the Institute to dispose of such a prototype above ground. At the same time, its physical appearance makes it unsuitable as an infiltration unit. It is obviously a synth, from all angles.”

Sipping from his glass, Maxson leans forward, prompting Danse to do the same. “I will trust your appraisal of the situation, Paladin. Is there anything more I should know? About Weiss, his companions, his plans?”

Danse does not hesitate, “No, sir.”

\--

Weiss sits at the edge of Danse’s bed, his shoes already off, toes curled against his feet, long legs in front of him. How he got in, Danse is not entirely sure. He could have sworn he locked his door while in the meeting with Maxson, but perhaps he forgot. 

“Should I be jealous of the Elder?” Weiss smiles.

“Could you hear us through the walls?” Danse asks.

Shrugging his shoulders, Weiss replies, “Just noise, not words.” He takes Danse’s hands in his, pulling him into the bed, Danse’s thighs straddled around Weiss’ hips. The mattress sinks under their weight. It is an odd position to maintain. Weiss snakes his arms around to Danse’s back, holding him close.

“We shouldn't, not here.”

Weiss smiles, “You're still ashamed of me?”

“No.” Danse can't explain further than that. 

“I'll go in a moment, just,” Weiss tilts his head so their mouths touch, sharing air above the wreckage that is always below them, always embedded inside them too.


	13. Tremors in the Night/Excuses in the Day

Weiss had planned to leave first thing in the morning. Check in at the Prydwen, let the rumors start circulating, and get the fuck back out. But Maxson asks him to accompany a Scribe to a nearby location to mine a potential cache of data. The Brotherhood could always use another escort, and this site looks particularly fruitful. Weiss doesn't understand how they are always short-staffed. Their seams are showing, threads pulling apart. Not as strong as they posture.

But, because the mission involves a Scribe, Weiss agrees. The Scribe class presents his most direct access to information, terminals, records. It's best that he befriends them. Danse may want to come with them. Weiss hopes not. This will be easier without him tethered to Weiss’ side.

“The Elder wants me to escort Scribe Neria in the field to check out some terminals.” Weiss leans against the power armor station. Danse is busy inventorying everything he’s got stored in his suit. Rad-x, stimpaks, bandages, ammunition. He’ll account for everything, even though he’s already been through the process once. 

Not looking up from his task, Danse replies, “I can be ready in ten minutes.”

“That’s the thing,” Weiss wraps his hand around the metal support of the station. “I think you should finish up here. It won’t take more than a couple of hours. This way we’re ready to head back to Diamond City when I finish up.” Weiss steps away from the station, turning the power on to his suit in the next station over and letting it boot up. 

That does make Danse turn. His eyes slightly narrowed, he asks, “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Weiss shrugs his shoulders, “It’s routine, right? Any Knight should be able to accomplish such an easy mission.” Biting the tip of his tongue, Weiss knows he’s pushing Danse. Maybe too far. But he does want Danse to admit that he would have been better suited as a Scribe himself. He could at least get some satisfaction from that. Still doesn’t get him the kind of clearance he needs, though.

“I- fine,” Danse turns back to his armor. “Let me know when you are ready to depart to Diamond City.”

Weiss claps Danse on the back before climbing into his suit. While it closes up behind him, locking him inside, he keeps his eyes shut. Only when the HUD turns on, does Weiss open his eyes again. Briefly, he looks at Danse, his lifesigns plicking onto the screen in uppercase type. The suit reduces a man to a title, to vital signs, to data.

\--

Scribe Neria is a plain looking woman, just of nineteen. Brotherhood born and raised. She says she wishes she could wear her hair longer, but it gets in the way. Weiss laughs and asks her about her work, doesn’t she mostly stay safely inside?

“Both my parents were Knights,” she scowls. “My mom wishes I were too. But my dad died when I was twelve. I don’t know what he would think.”

She looks small in her big robes, but she may be perfectly average under all her layers. Being born in the Capital, she thinks the Commonwealth is cold. 

“A lot of people say that,” Weiss smiles.

“You know people from the Capital?” her face couldn’t get any brighter. 

They’ve been walking for an hour. Weiss took one of the laser rifles, tactically avoiding yet another argument with Danse. But his pistol is still at his hip. Sure he can fire the rifle, maybe as a warning shot. But if he has to actually kill something? He’s not taking any chances. Neria isn’t even armored. It’s up to him to make sure she’s safe. 

“Sure, I have a friend from there his name’s MacCready. Hell of a sniper.” Weiss leaves out that MacCready is a mercenary. “And isn’t Paladin Danse?”

“Oh yes, I suppose he is. I remember when he joined.”

“Do you?” Weiss smiles, “What was he like?”

Neria stops looking up at Weiss, training her eyes somewhere in the distance instead. Weiss doesn’t miss the slight flush to her cheeks. “I was young, but he was the same I guess. Quiet. Stubborn. My mother didn’t like him much. But he’s a good soldier. The Elder trusts him a great deal.”

Weiss nods, even though she’s not looking at him. “I guess we’re here. Let me make sure the building is secure.” He pops his helmet back on in case there is actually anything hostile inside.

Leaving the Scribe outside, Weiss enters the outpost. He walks the internal perimeter first, then cutting through the center of the single room. There’s a set of stairs leading down, but the door is latched shut. As long as he keeps an eye on it, making sure nothing comes up the stairs, it doesn’t matter if whatever lives down there stays alive. There are a few radroaches, nothing more. Weiss stomps them out with his boots. It’s easier than aiming.

“Okay, Neria, we’re clear,” he pulls his helmet back off.

Neria rummages through her pack as she approaches the terminal, setting her recorder down. She also carries a cloth roll filled with small implements, screwdrivers, pliers, tweezers, in case she needs to pull hardware as well. Maxson didn’t give Weiss all the details of what she is recovering, only the instruction to escort her. 

“I’ll let you get to work,” Weiss splits his attention between the door to the outside and the stairs. Honestly, he’s not sure what he would do if anything bigger than a molerat were to come busting through either. Probably just get exposed as a fraud. He’s used to that risk, though. 

Humming to herself Neira copies files off the terminal. The tape hums and clicks as it spins. 

“Haven’t heard that song before?” Weiss comments. “Most everything on the radio is old. I mean, old like me.”

“You’re not old, though?” she keeps her eyes on the screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. “I mean, I know they say you were born before the War and frozen. But you don’t look old?”

“Nah,” Weiss leans against the wall, it’s a bit cumbersome in his armor. “I was old even before that.” He chooses his words carefully. Though he needs Neria to like him, he can’t push her too far, ask too much. Leaving her with a soft sense of interest would be enough for now. She’s thoughtful, but talkative. A positive experience here, and other Scribes might open up to him as well. 

The tape stops spinning and she shuts down the terminal. With the screwdriver, she starts taking apart the casing. “What was it like, before the bombs?”

Terrible. He wants to tell the truth. He was terrible too. “There used to be flowers. Some things aren’t that different.” He looks down at his gauntleted hands, curls metal fingers. He thinks about the metal legs Nate came home with, buried under realistic silicone, matched the color of his skin precisely. But they were hairless, cold. “I miss the flowers most, I think.”

“That’s...very sentimental of you.” Pulling out the hard disk, Neria starts packing her things back up. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she finishes, holding her pack to her chest. “We should get back.”

“Yeah,” Weiss smiles, “we should.”

Just as he opens the door, he hears her say, “Maybe one day, you’ll like the flowers we still have.”

“I think I will. Maybe I already do.”

\--

Returning at lunch hour, Weiss finds Danse at the mess, chewing through what looks like maybe radstag meat. Hard to tell, everything sort of looks the same now. It’s all too coarse and gamey for his tastes, but he still eats it, because he has to eat something. But mirelurk isn’t as sweet and flakey as crab. Molerat isn’t like anything he’s ever eaten before. He hasn’t seen a chicken since waking up. 

“We can go once you’re done eating,” Weiss sticks his hands in his pockets as he slides in next to Danse. 

When he’s finished chewing, Danse asks, “Don’t you need to eat?”

“Nah, could use a smoke. Didn’t want to in front of Neria. Got to set a good example, right?”

“Neira is a competent Scribe. Her mother is very proud of her.” Danse takes another bite.

Weiss smiles, “She should be. Anyway, I need to pop a new fusion core. I’ll see you out at the Bird in ten?” He doesn’t want to give anyone the chance to detain them further, and he’s not about to leave Danse behind. 

“Of course.”

Hopping back off the chair, Weiss pulls out his cigarette pack on his way out to the deck. He waits until he can lean over the railing before lighting one up. Below him, the Wasteland looks so small, like one of those toy train sets. Watching the wheels spin, but all the people are plastic. He drags through his cigarette as quickly as possible, tapping ash off the side. It breaks up as it floats back towards the ground. They made so many cigarettes before the war. He doesn’t think they’ll ever run out. Snuffing out the end on the railing, he pockets the butt. He can toss it when he next sees a receptacle.

\--

Weiss climbs out of the power armor before knocking at Piper’s door. Doesn’t want to break the damn thing off its hinges. When she doesn’t respond, he uses his key in the lock. Behind him, he can hear the hiss of Danse’s armor coming apart. Good. He’s learning.

The radioactive rain pings against the steel roofs of Diamond City. At his wrist, the Geiger counter buzzes until after Weiss steps inside. When Piper is out of town, Nat hardly ever hangs around, staying instead with friends. She’s old enough to manage herself, as long as she stays within the great green walls. 

Weiss pulls off his shirt, using it to towel dry his hair. It isn’t very wet, but the radiation clings. He could go for a shower, although all that would do is add more rads to the soup. Picking through his pack, he pulls a tablet dose of radaway, popping it into his mouth. He drops another tab to hand to Danse, once he’s through the door.

“Wright will not mind that we are here?”

“No,” he shoves the tablet into Danse’s hand, “I’ll get you some water.” He’d swallowed his own dose without, letting saliva build in his mouth to coat the pill before it went down his throat. Reaching into the fridge, he takes a bottle, handing it back to Danse, then appraising the rest of Piper’s food. They could just have instamash for dinner. There’s some brahmin jerky too that Danse could have.

“She is very...kind to you.”

“Yeah well,” closing the refrigerator door, Weiss leans back, his bare back sticking to the plastic coating. “I’m a good story. I sell papers.”

Danse takes another sip from the bottle before handing it back. Weiss finishes it off before setting the plastic aside.

“Where is she?”

“Don’t know,” Weiss admits. “Maybe chasing a lead? Never can tell.”

“You care for her,” Danse says, matter of fact.

“I care for all my friends.” Pushing off the fridge, Weiss steps closer to Danse, wrapping one arm around his waist and using the fingers of the other to card through the back of Danse’s hair. He likes how it feels between his fingers. 

“We might be alone for awhile?” Weiss presses his lips into Danse’s neck, “We can’t say that often.” He can feel Danse’s pulse quicken under his lips. He kisses him there again.

“Or she may be back at any moment.”

“She’ll knock,” Weiss pushes Danse until his back is against the wall, narrowly missing falling over stacks of old Bugles. As he corners Danse, his hands move from his back to the front of his uniform, trying to pull at the zippers and buckles. Danse is more than strong enough to stop him. And he could always say no. But he doesn’t, groaning instead at the brushes of hands against the layers of uniform. 

Weiss pins Danse with his lips, trying to coax his way inside, confident now that Danse will open and bloom. When he does, parting his lips and teeth, Weiss searches with his hands again, pulling Danse’s orange uniform open. Happy enough to pull his arms out of the sleeves, Danse grabs onto Weiss’ hips, rocking their bodies together. But it’s not enough. Weiss, in a moment of shimmering clarity, thinks that it will never be enough. Because Danse tastes clean and sharp, and like an emerging memory. He snakes his hands up Danse’s shirt, pressing nails to flesh and raking across his abdomen until Danse hisses.

“Do you like that?” he growls. 

“Yes,” Danse pants, craning his head and exposing more of his neck. His nails dig into the flesh on Weiss’ hips, so fierce it starts to hurt. It’ll leave bruises. Weiss doesn’t mind. 

Instead of rucking up Danse’s singlet, he tries to push the uniform fully down, off of Danse’s hips so he can get at his cock. Weiss starts dropping to his knees, wrenching out of Danse’s grip so he can take his cock into his mouth. But Danse stops him.

“No, not that.”

And Weiss could scream. He could scream and wreck from frustration. But he doesn’t. His hands shake, pressed against Danse’s still-covered thighs. He can see the outline of Danse’s erection through his uniform. But Danse told him to stop. So he does, pushing himself back up to his feet. 

“Can I still kiss you?” he asks, still cautious about being rejected again.

“Yes.”

Slower this time, Weiss puts his lips back against Danse’s. He stays still as Danse rocks into him, the burn of his erection against Weiss’ leg. But if this is all Danse is willing to give, it’s all Weiss is allowed to take.

“Why?” he whispers, choked between kisses. “I’d give you everything you want.”

Danse pulls away slightly, his eyes wide and bright. “Don’t know really, what I want.”

“But not my mouth on your cock?” he’s trying to be patient, he really is. But his desire for Danse is so vast, filling up the empty combs inside of him until he feels he might burst. So, he tries again. “I could use my hand?”

Pausing, Danse seems to consider that. “I--this is Piper’s home.”

“Fuck,” Weiss slams his hand into the wall, just to the side of Danse’s head. Danse doesn’t flinch. “Where, where can I take you, then? Anywhere. Just name it. Anywhere.”

“I don’t know,” Danse starts shaking as well, “I don’t know.”

Weiss kisses the side of his head, trying to get his arms back into their sleeves, but Danse stops him. 

“Are you hungry, want dinner?” Weiss tries to will his erection back down. It’s at least fading as he thinks of things other than the coppery taste of Danse’s mouth. Other than the press of their bodies together. “There’s mash and jerky?”

“I don’t think I’m hungry,” Danse responds. He sounds far away, like he’s still stuck on the planet while Weiss starts drifting away.


	14. Make the Transition between Divergent Tracks

Weiss says they ought to go to the Dugout for dinner. He pulls a sweater on over his dress shirt, telling Danse to put on something other than his uniform. There are sets of clothes still left from when Piper went shopping for larger sizes.

Danse lingers over the clothing. It's been a long time since he's experienced this sort of...he doesn't even know. Civilian life? Back at Rivet City, maybe. When he would go around to Gary’s for dinner, after closing up shop. Cutler would joke with Angela while she popped the caps off of their colas. Danse never cared for soda but Cutler always ordered two. Danse would drink his slowly, preferring the food to drink. Mirelurk cakes were always on the menu, cheaper than Brahmin.

He dresses quickly and meets Weiss back in the office. They walk in silence across the marketplace and back to the bar. It's early yet, only the regulars and persistent alcoholics occupying the barstools.

“Sit down, okay?” Weiss instructs, pointing to an empty table. “I'll grab dinner, do you want anything to drink?” He keeps his hand against the small of Danse’s back, fingers tapping in an uneasy rhythm. 

“Beer is fine,” Danse winces, he shouldn't. It would cloud his judgement, but one should be fine.

He realizes he misses the warmth of Weiss’ touch.

Weiss leans over the bar, passing caps over to the balding man with a heavy accent and broad smile. Smiling himself, Weiss waves off some suggestion or another. His sweater rides up slightly at the back when he leans, pants sitting too low on his hips, even with the belt. The barkeep passes him a bottle of beer and a glass with amber liquid.

Upon returning, Weiss slides the beer to Danse before settling in across from him at the table. He sips from his glass. “I can't believe of all the things humans managed to use up in two hundred years, nice scotch had to be the first.”

“We had scotch, back in the Capital.”

“Was it nicer than this?” Weiss holds out his glass for Danse to sip.

Making no move to take the glass, Danse replies, “I'm afraid I wouldn't know the difference.”

“Fair enough,” leaning back, Weiss puts down his glass and lights a cigarette instead. His smoke drifts up to the rafters. “Vadim will be around in a minute with the food. They're still getting ready for the evening rush.”

Danse doesn't ask what Weiss has ordered. He supposes there is little use in asking.

“Do you miss it?” Weiss asks.

“Miss what?”

“The Capital,” he shakes his head. “I don't mean to pry, only you looked, pensive? Like maybe you missed home.”

“I've said before, I don't necessarily consider the Capital to be my home. Even though I've never lived anywhere else.”

Weiss smiles, “I think I know what you mean.”

“I,” Danse hesitates, but if he cannot tell Weiss these things, there is no one else. “I had a friend, once. We,” his mouth is dry, the beer cannot wet it. “We worked together, at Rivet City. We joined the Brotherhood together.”

Weiss’ dark eyes soften.

The barkeep is loud as he arrives, asking them to tell him if the food is good, though he is just now lowering their plates to the table. Weiss laughs at the joke, saying that it's the absolute best, better than before the War. Vadim cackles in response, says they should hold a comedy night, just for Weiss to show off his skills. Such a shame he is always so busy. From his big apron pocket, he pulls the scotch bottle, topping up Weiss’ drink before he goes.

Danse stares at his plate, it looks like brahmin, dark, cooked all the way through. Weiss has lurk, it looks old and unappetizing. But Danse says nothing about it.

“Go on, though?” Weiss urges, “unless, sorry, you must be hungry.” He cuts into the lurk with his fork. It's rubbery.

Cutting through his Brahmin, Danse’s hands feel like lead, every movement a strain. He looks at the bit of meat on his fork. “He was my only friend, for a long time.”

Under the table, Weiss’ leg bounces. “You loved him.” It's not a question. Which is good. Because Danse wouldn't know how to answer. 

A great affection, yes. But one Danse never spoke upon. One he pushed aside, buried, because there was no space in which it could grow. Better, this way, to have never planted it.

“He's gone now.”

“I'm sorry.” Weiss pushes around his meal on the plate. The ceramic is surprisingly intact. “I'm sorry.”

Danse eats the first bite. It's slightly tough, but not too bad, still warm despite his delay. Certainly the best meal he's had in weeks. He chews slowly, watching Weiss’ hands continue to skitter. There is more he wants to say, because now that he has started, he feels the rush of words pressing against the back of his teeth. Next time he opens his mouth, they’ll spill out, like caps across the table top.

“He went out on an assignment...leading a company of Knights…”

Weiss’ hands still as he listens. It's impossible for Danse to look him in the eye. 

“Not here, I'm sorry,” Danse corrects, his chest heavy.

They work through their meal quietly, the scrape of their forks against the plates. As the minutes move forward, the Dugout starts to fill. Residents of Diamond City ordering hot meals and lukewarm drinks. Weiss waves Vadim over, asking for another beer and the key. The beer goes to Danse. This time, he doesn't muse over taking it. He drinks it down fast.

Weiss holds the key in his fist, motioning for Danse to follow. “You can bring your beer.” He has his scotch in hand. Swallowing down the last of his beer, Danse leaves the bottle on the table. Weiss leads him back towards the inn, checking the number on the key before sliding it in.

Danse realizes what Weiss is suggesting. That he has done this for them. For him. So that he may be comfortable. But the racket coming from the bar is seeping through the walls.

Yet, Weiss’s hands wrap around Danse’s hips, pulling up his hem. They feel warm. Good. Alive. His lips press against Danse’s as they stand together in the center of the room. Danse lets his hands drift too, until they reach the back of Weiss’ slacks. Not knowing what to do, he grabs hold of Weiss’ belt, letting the edge dig into his palm.

“Will this do?” Weiss smiles, keeping Danse close.

“I don't know,” he thinks for a moment. “What if someone hears?”

Weiss kisses his jaw. “Listen how loud it is out there, no one cares. No one is listening. We’re safe here. You're safe with me.”

“Weiss,” the name starts to feel odd in his mouth. He tries again, “Vishnu.”

“You know,” he laughs, “If it won’t do, I can still run to the mayor’s office before it closes tonight.” He grabs onto the waistband of Danse’s slacks as well, pinning them together. “There’s a property for sale. It’s only two-thousand caps.”

“That’s unreasonable,” Danse feels his stomach flip.

“Or is it me, that’s wrong,” Vishnu’s fingers warm against his stomach. “Doesn’t matter where we go. I’m still me, and you don’t want me?” he smiles.

But that’s not right either. Vishnu is so, so wrong if he believes that to be true. Tilting his chin up, Danse kisses Vishnu first, showing his initiative. He pushes past Vishnu’s teeth, feeling the reverberations of his laughter. Vishnu pulls them both back towards the bed, trying to arrange them so Danse is on top, settled between Vishnu’s spread thighs. 

“Would you prefer it like this?” His hair is still tied, but it fans out against the pillow. “I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed.” Hands at Danse’s hem again, this time Danse does not flinch when Vishnu begins pulling the fabric over his head. Shifting his weight, Danse lets the shirt come off. Vishnu tosses it aside. 

Danse admits, “I’m not sure what I would prefer.”

Vishnu’s face wrinkles just above the bridge of his nose. “You haven’t been with a man, have you?”

While his lips part, Danse doesn’t know how to explain. Weiss’ hands continue to skitter up and down his bare sides, their groins pressed together. 

“It’s alright. I can suck your cock first? Something more familiar?”

“I wouldn’t…haven’t…”

“Then I could show you how to touch me? Just with your hands? We can work up to it. If this is something you want?”

One of the light bulbs overhead goes off. Vishnu pulls his hands off of Danse, flicking on his Pipboy light to make up for the darkness. 

“Just tell me, Danse,” Vishnu’s hands are back on him, pushing ever so slightly into the waistband of his slacks. 

It’s so embarrassing to admit, to say it aloud. Because Danse knows it’s odd, for a man of his age. He doesn’t know the year he was born, much less the day, but he knows he’s at least thirty. And he knows from ambient talk that it is typical to have engaged in intercourse by the time one reaches their early twenties. He’s been asked in jest about his ‘conquests,’ carefully deflecting such suggestions. Improper to speak upon. And he may deflect here as well. He may stop all of this as well. But his chest feels heavy, tight as his breathes, his body pressed against Vishnu’s below him. 

“This isn’t my first time with a man,” he corrects. “I’ve never been with anyone,” stressing the last word, he shuts his eyes. He can hear Vishnu breathe over the noise of the bar. It’s not loud, but it’s terribly close. 

“How?” 

When Danse opens his eyes again, Vishnu is looking up at him, his eyes soft, hands still. 

Danse thinks, there was never an opportunity. But that’s not quite right. Because it’s never been about space, or about time, or the racket of other bodies too close who may hear, or too much duty and not enough selfishness. “There hasn’t been anyone.” There is more to that statement, “Who I felt comfortable with, who cared about me. Who didn’t see me as an obligation when I was weak, or a resource when I was strong.” He licks along his teeth, because even now, with Vishnu beneath him, his body heat pressed against Danse, his eyes open and alive, Danse worries he’ll be rejected. That this is some illusion he’s built up. Perhaps Vishnu is not at all real. Only a figment to fill the loneliness. The words well sweetly at the back of his mouth. He thinks it is a mistake to voice them, but he’ll drown otherwise.

Vishnu curls his hands around Danse’s cheeks, keeping him from looking away. “Tell me what you want? And I’ll do it, or not do it.”

Breathing, Danse can only manage a half-reply, but it must do. “I want you to tell me.”

“Okay,” Vishnu kisses each of his cheeks in turn, “Okay, I can do that. Only, tell me if I need to stop, for any reason.” The final kiss ends on Danse’s lips, slow and drawn. His hands curl in the sheets at either side of Vishnu’s body. When the kiss breaks, the tone of Vishnu’s voice shifts. “Lay on your back.”

Rolling to his side, Danse settles against the mattress. Then all the way onto his back. Vishnu gets up, standing at the side of the bed. Fear swells up again, that Vishnu may leave. But he only strips away his shirt before turning to Danse, standing at the foot of the bed. 

“Take off your pants,” reaching into his own slacks pocket, Vishnu pulls out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

“Yes, Sir,” Danse thinks little of the words coming from his lips.

Vishnu watches as Danse’s hands go to his fly, opening the button, then the zipper. Danse tugs his pants off, tossing them away. The cigarette stays unlit. Vishnu only taps it against his lighter. 

“Touch yourself,” there is a vibration in Vishnu’s voice. He’s holding back, but what? Why? Danse doesn’t know.

“Yes, Sir.”

He takes his erection in hand, starting at the base and drawing it upwards to the tip. Hard already, he normally tries to blackout any thoughts when he touches himself. But this time, he focuses on Vishnu, still at the end of the bed, the tapping of his cigarette. He twiches in his own hand, knowing well enough how to work himself. His eyes stay open, watching Visnhu’s hands, his mouth, his sharp motions, even when they are small.

“Stop,” Vishnu says. He sticks his hands back into his pockets, this time pulling out a small tube, leaving the cigarette behind. Shucking out of his own slacks, he drops the bottle of lubricant into the sheets before coming to settle between Danse’s thighs. His cock brushes against Danse’s leg, warm against his skin. “I’m going to stretch you with my fingers. Do you understand?”

Danse’s head feels cloudy with want. But he must answer. Vishnu will stop otherwise. “Yes, Sir.”

Sitting back on his heels, Vishnu grabs the bottle, coating his fingers with lubricant. It makes his hand cooler as he rubs his fingers against Danse’s hole, slow circles at first, not trying to breach him. “I’m going to open your pretty ass with my fingers,” he growls, the circles getting tighter. “God,” this time he laughs, “the things I’m going to do to you, once we get a chance.” His other hand stays pinned beside Danse’s head as he slowly starts to push into Danse’s hole. “I’m going to suck your cock and make you scream, I’m going to eat your ass until your knees are weak, I’m going to ride your pretty cock until I can’t sit down for days.” 

Danse groans, low in the back of his throat. 

“But right now? I’m going to show you who you belong to.” He kisses Danse, quick and ragged. “Going to show you how much you mean to me.” Vishnu hits something inside him with his fingers. Danse’s body studders, his erection feeling tighter. His body more on edge. A second finger slides in as Vishnu scissors him open. “Wanted this for so long,” he’s smiling again. “God, you’re so beautiful like this.”

When their eyes lock again, Danse almost believes what Vishnu says. That maybe he is a person worth belonging. 

Vishnu pulls his fingers out, uncapping the bottle again to slick lubricant over his cock. He strokes himself back to full hardness before drawing his erection against Danse’s hole, waiting at his entrance. “I’m going to put my cock in you now.” He waits.

“Yes.”

Pushing in, Danse waits for pain, expects it, almost wants it, but feels little more than the burn of fullness, a heavy pressure inside of him. Vishnu has been exceedingly careful in preparing him, in waiting. He sinks in, to the base, Holding steady, his arms on either side of Danse’s head, Vishnu waits before the first thrust. Then it comes, the rocking of their bodies together. The ring around Vishnu’s neck brushes against Danse’s chest on each stroke. Danse bites at the inside of his mouth, trying to keep his noises back. 

“So good, so beautiful,” Vishnu thrusts into him, quicker now, his hand coming to Danse’s cock. He strokes it just off pace of the stroking of his hips into Danse’s ass. “You’re mine, do you understand?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir.”

Because like this he is, he belongs, open, willing, no longer alone. The heat of a body against his. One that cares for him, not abstractly, but concretely. But still one that may vanish, rendered into ash. Or maybe float away into the atmosphere. 

Vishnu’s hand speeds up, the twist of his slicked hand against Danse’s cock almost unbearable, until he comes in thick spurts between their bodies. He can’t keep his eyes open, falling backwards into the white field of orgasm, his abdomen tightening. Dimly he can feel Vishnu’s hips slamming against his own, chasing his own release. Mutters of “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” And something else too, between the curses as Danse clenches around him. “Love you, love you, love you.”

And Danse feels like he may break apart. 

As he comes, Vishnu shudders, placing both hands back on the bed. He slides his softening cock out, still panting heavily, his forehead sweaty. “Are you alright?” his voice is soft. “Was it good?”

Danse has to respond, and it’s earnest, “Yes, I--yes.”

Leaning over, Vishnu kisses his lips before folding over to his side, pulling Danse closer to his body. They’re both too hot, and sticky. But Danse can’t will himself to complain, or move. He’s still in soft shock. 

“Vishnu?” he curls his fingers around his arm, watching as the pressure dimples Vishnu’s skin.

“Hmm?” he kisses the top of Danse’s head. Danse can feel the indent of his nose. 

And there it is again, waves crashing against his jaw. “I love you.” It feels like a tightly pulled string, ready to snap, stretched down the line of Danse’s back.

Vishnu nudges him around until they can see each other’s eyes in the low light. “I love you.”

Danse isn’t sure he believes Vishnu. Not when he cobbles together so many pretty words to get his way. But Danse wants to be gotten, captured, held. Even if it’s pretend.


	15. Any Combination of Words Can Be Comforting if You Use the Right Intonation

It’s three am, and Weiss is awake.

He pulls himself out of bed, trying to settle Danse’s arm around a pillow, so he’ll still have something to hold onto. His dark lashes are still pressed against the tops of his cheekbones. In the low light of the room, the contrast is particularly stark. Danse shifts slightly in his sleep, pulling the pillow closer to his chest, shifting his hips ever so slightly. But he does not wake. Weiss resists leaning over to kiss him awake. Because he wants to taste his name on Danse’s lips again.

Standing, he looks around the room for his slacks. They’re piled together with Danse’s clothes. Weiss had half expected Danse would want to get dressed again, after they faded out of the afterglow. But Danse had fallen asleep soon after, Weiss still drawing helixes against his skin. 

From his pocket he grabs his tin first, taking two pills to battle back the headache. That should last him until a reasonable hour. Even if he’s restless, he should still be here when Danse wakes up. Anything else would be unkind. Fuck, and he wants, he really wants to be able to climb back into bed, spoon his body against Danse’s, and drift back to sleep. But right now, it’s not happening.

He grabs the ashtray from on top of the dresser, holding it tucked under his arm while he lights his cigarette. Not wanting to leave the room, he stands against the wall in the furthest corner to smoke. He’s meticulous, tapping off the ash into the tray, making sure none gets on the carpet. The ugly, gray-green weave may already be ruined with age and mold, but he’s not about to make things worse. 

Only half-way through his first stick, Danse starts to stir, rolling from his side onto his back and leaving the pillow behind. Even at a distance, Weiss can tell his eyes are blinking open. He snuffs out his cigarette, depositing the ashtray back on the dresser on his way to bed.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he crouches at the bedside, running one hand over Danse’s hair. “Go back to sleep.”

Danse takes Weiss’ wrist in his hand. His fingers reach all the way around. Tugging Weiss’ hand away from his hair, Danse threads their fingers instead. “Where are we?”

“Dugout, remember?” Last night, Danse hadn’t seemed particularly drunk. A few beers shouldn’t be much for a person of Danse’s size. 

“Yeah,” there’s the raspiness of sleep still in Danse’s voice. “I remember, sorry. Just…”

“Tired? Of course.” Weiss tips forward to press his lips against Danse’s. “I’ll come back to bed in a second.”

“They’re killing you,” Danse’s eyes are already closing again.

Weiss smiles, “I know, I just think something else is going to get me first. Deathclaw or Institute, or a whole pack of molerats or something. Cancer is pretty low down the list.”

“Not the cigarettes, Vishnu,” Danse squeezes his hand, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Frowning, Weiss squeezes back. He unlaces his hand from Danse’s, drawing away so he can finish off his cigarette. Instead of the old, half-finished one, he lights a new stick. Burns that one half-way as well. The air in the room is too cold. He wants to go back to bed. 

Danse folds back against him, his hand coming to rest on Weiss’ hip, just where the bone is starting to jut out. He’s lost a little bit of weight since coming above ground. Not a lot, but enough. Lifestyle change...that’s an understatement. 

Hesitantly, Danse’s hand moves from Weiss’ hip, across his stomach, just at the waistband of his boxers. He holds his fingers against the elastic. Weiss laughs, “What do you want to do?”

Danse knits his forehead, his hand still now. “I want you.”

“Good,” Weiss starts, “What else?”

“Anything, anything you want from me.”

Weiss knows Danse doesn’t actually mean anything. He can’t possibly. Only, Danse is not sure how to articulate what he wants, or isn’t sure what it is they can be doing, or possibly just wants to be led. For some people, that’s less embarrassing, maybe. And Weiss heard Danse last night, how quickly he fell into ‘yes, sir, yes, sir,’ how deep he stayed submerged in his self-adopted role. 

So Weiss takes him again, lets Danse follow the commands he so desperately wants to hear, whispered against his skin. Fall into an easy habit of submission. “Be a good boy, get on your hands and knees,” Weiss licks his lips.

Danse listens, letting the sheet fall away as he rolls onto his stomach, pushing up onto all fours. He’s fucking perfect, everywhere. His face, his arms, his ass. The way his stubble cuts down his neck and his thighs could crush a man’s head. Weiss almost thinks he’s an illusion, a dream. 

“Closer towards the headboard.” Danse is too heavy for Weiss to push around by force, so he has to use words instead. Manipulations of his tongue and teeth. Danse creeps forward, until his head almost touches the wall. “Good, like that.” Weiss runs one hand down Danse’s spine, shuffling on the bed until he’s behind Danse. Sitting back on his heels, Weiss raises his hand, bringing it back down sharply against Danse’s ass. The crack echos in the room, but Danse barely moves. “Do you like that?” Weiss asks. But he’s already smiling, rubbing his hand against Danse’s ass, soothing where he just struck. 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you want me to do it again?”

“Yes, Sir.”

For a moment, Weiss considers getting his belt, but that might be too much for this morning, might be more than Danse will ever want. So he uses his hand again, bringing it back down twice in quick succession. He can hear Danse moan into his closed mouth, trying to stifle his noises. 

Taking his hand away again, Weiss watches Danse tense, waiting for the next blow. But, instead, he leans forward, pressing his moistened tongue flat to Danse’s hole. He makes his tongue the first point of contact, before reaching with one hand to pull Danse apart. Wrapping the other hand around Danse’s waist, he pulls Danse back, holding him in place as he licks. Drawing circles at first, Weiss listens for dying protests from Danse. but none come, just small groans, terribly brief. As Danse finally starts relaxing, Weiss dips his tongue inside, growing hard from the half-curses Danse can’t quite stifle, as hard as he tries. 

“You’re so pretty like this,” he moves his hand to Danse’s cock, stroking him unhurriedly, making sure he stays hard. Next time, when Danse isn’t so needy and desperate, he’s going to make Danse fuck him with his pretty cock. Toss him around and wreck him. Because while Weiss isn’t strong enough to handle Danse like that, the reverse is quite possible. Fuck, and it would be so much fun.

“Sir, please,” Danse pants.

Fuck. Weiss loves him so much, so much. So much, so much, so much. He’ll protect this. Won’t fuck up again. 

“What do you want, love?”

Danse rocks his hips back, bumping into Weiss’s chest, “Please.”

Shit.

Weiss leans over, having to put one foot on the floor to reach the bedside table where they left the bottle of lube. He slicks his fingers first, then his cock. He’s careful to slide two digits into Danse first, making sure he’s still relaxed and open. Still, he works more lubricant inside Danse, liking how he groans at the pressure, how his breath hitches as Weiss pulls his fingers back out.

Holding his cock steady as he slides in, Weiss presses until he’s buried, Danse accepting him now with little trouble. Like they are supposed to fit together. It’s a heady feeling, the tangible sensation of interlocking. That Danse takes him without trouble, that he wants Weiss as intensely as he is wanted in return. Weiss reaches forward, grabbing a fistful of Danse’s hair. It’s not quite long enough, but if he keeps his fingers curled just right, he can hold on. The other hand he drops to Danse’s hip, scratching his nails against the surface. “Fuck yourself on my cock,” he commands. 

Danse rocks forward slightly, letting Weiss slip partway out, before coming back to meet, hip to hip.

“Good boy,” Weiss encourages, so Danse will try again. He does, harder this time, further out, faster in. “Show me how much you want my cock.”

Viciously tight, Danse thrusts back onto him three or four more times before Weiss changes the position of his hands. He lets go of Danse’s hair, curling his long fingers around the back of his neck instead. He closes his hand down, pressing tightly into Danse’s neck, pushing until his face goes to the mattress. Shifting his weight, he keeps pressure on Danse’s neck, knowing it’s still not enough to really restrict his breathing. Like this, Danse can’t move quite as much, so Weiss makes up the difference, slamming his hips into Danse, taking over the work of fucking into him. 

With his other hand he reaches around to stroke Danse’s cock. He’s already hard, and tightly wound, just at the edge of coming. Weiss doesn’t draw out the inevitable, hissing to, “Come for me, show me how much you like this.”

“Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir, Yes.”

Danse comes over Weiss’ hand and the sheets below. Thick and as messy as last night. Weiss almost laughs, thinking Danse must have ten-plus years of fucking to get out of his system. Wondering if he’ll always be so beautifully desperate for it. Weiss might not be able to keep up, if that’s the case. But fuck, fuck he’ll try. A few more hurried strokes and he feels his abdomen tightening, the familiar feeling of the crash he’s spent so long chasing. To be swallowed up in Danse’s quiet aura. Punctuated by sharp sadness that Weiss thinks he can still chase away. He empties into Danse, drawing ragged breaths, trying to keep his composure. Danse still tenses around his cock, milking the last of him dry. 

He takes his hand off of Danse’s neck, resting it on the mattress instead. The depressions of his fingers are still angry-red on Danse’s neck, but they should fade in time. He shouldn't have pressed hard enough to bruise. Sitting back, his cock slides back out of Danse. He's careful not to go too far. Danse is still quiet, still. Weiss brushes his hand against Danse’s back in slow swipes.

“I love you,” he leans to kiss the small of Danse’s back, before shifting back to his side. “Come here,” he keeps his voice low.

Danse still hasn't moved, but his rate of breathing starts to slow. Weiss brushes against his arm, trying to get him to come. Finally, Danse lowers his weight back to the mattress, turning on his side. Weiss is careful to kiss him, draw him in and hold. 

“Did you like it?” Weiss asks, he has to be sure.

Danse exhales, “Yes, very much. Too much, even.”

Laughing, Weiss responds, “Can't be too much, love.”

“It's just...overwhelming. And I do not feel I do enough?”

“Don't worry,” he tries to settle Danse’s concerns. “I like being in control. Well,” Weiss comes up with a simple way to explain. “The thing I most enjoy, about sex, is giving you exactly what you want. To make you so delirious with want and pleasure that you'll be ruined for anyone else.”

Danse shifts next to him. “That sounds...ominous. As if you're planning on leaving.”

“No,” Weiss assures, pecking at Danse’s nose. “You're mine. I'm yours.” He has to make Danse understand. “I love you. And nothing, nothing, is going to separate us again. I won't let it.”

“You can't promise that, Vishnu,” Danse corrects. Maybe that's true, but it won't stop Weiss from wanting. “I should tell you, about Cutler.”

Weiss doesn't want to hear about another man. Not now, as they are in bed together. But Danse places his palm over Nate’s wedding band, still hung around Weiss’ neck, and Weiss realizes that he can't make an objection on this count. They’re both always haunted.

“He was deployed, to a known supermutant hive, shortly after we were assigned to the Prydwen.”

Weiss knows better than to interrupt. It's tenuous enough that Danse feels comfortable to speak at all.

“His unit did not return for weeks. Long after the scheduled rendezvous. I-I convinced the Elder to mount a search for them. Led the unit myself. Everyone had been butchered, torn to meat. Except for one. Except for Cutler.

“I would know him. I would always know him,” Danse draws a ragged breath. “The mutants had exposed him to FEV. Turned him into one of them.”

Weiss can't help to tense, to wait. Danse does not know about Virgil.

“I knew him. And he was gone. They made him into a monster. A vile, horrible beast. It was...the right thing to do.”

“Yes,” Weiss’ mouth is dry. “The kindest choice.”

“...Yes,” Danse’s hesitation speaks volumes.

\--

They leave the Dugout at six am. Danse is fully awake and Weiss is restless. He'd rather make their way back to Publick Occurrences, where perhaps he can at least make plans for taking down a Courser. They've faced plenty of synths so far. Waves and waves of Gen 2s, with their identical, not-quite-human faces. With their exposed metal workings, blinding-white plastic exoskeletons. Those synths go down quick and easy.

But he hasn't knowingly fought a Gen 3 yet, though he supposes he may have met a few. He's not sure. And he hasn't fought a Courser, synths so powerful, adept, that the Commonwealth fears them on name alone. Weiss is a smart enough man to know he can't fight one. But his friends can. Danse can, Preston, MacCready. Nick should come too. As much help as he can manage. If nothing else, they can overwhelm the Courser with numbers and get the chip they need.

They stop off at Power Noodles, Weiss ordering two bowls, not giving Danse the opportunity to refuse. It's an odd breakfast, but nothing else is open, and neither of them can do much in the way of cooking. Carefully, Weiss eats with his chopsticks as they walk. Danse just holds his bowl between both hands.

He hands off his bowl to Danse so he can get Piper’s key, she's still not back. Her note said Sanctuary, then a settlement with Preston. She should be safe enough with both Garvey and MacCready. So he tries not to worry.

Toeing off his shoes, Weiss settles in, putting his bowl of noodles on Piper’s desk. There's still the matter of supplies. “Shops open at eight. I want to get some planning done.” He holds onto Danse’s biceps, enjoying the heat of his body still. Loving the idea they'll wake up together from now on. That his affections are returned. “They’ll be five of us. Hopefully. All energy weapons, except for MacCready. Ah, Preston isn't bad with a conventional rifle either. Have you fought a Courser before?”

Danse shakes his head. “I have seen them, and determined it to be tactically unwise to fight it at the time.”

“Fair enough,” Weiss leans against the corner of Piper’s desk, lighting a cigarette. “I don't think it will take more than a day. Virgil made it seem like we should find one quite quickly, out by the C.I.T. ruins. Fuck,” Weiss narrows his eyes, “what a reunion.”

“What?”

Weiss waves the hand with his cigarette between his fingers, “I was an undergraduate there. After I got kicked out of the army. They still took me. Though by then I was a little older than my classmates. You'd be surprised though, how popular ‘dishonorable discharge’ could make you, in certain circles.”

“Generally, one wouldn't advertise failures.”

Weiss shrugs. He doesn't really want to talk about it. “So would you be able to get the supplies we need? Another couple hours until everything’s open, but, you can just use my credit. Or,” he pushes off the desk, heading for one of Piper’s filing cabinets. Fitting the smallest key on his ring into the lock, he opens the bottom drawer. Inside is another safe, to which he has to spin the combination. “Take what caps you think should cover it.”

Danse’s eyes go a little wide. “How much money do you have?”

“That used to be considered a rude question,” Weiss barks a laugh, “A lot, I guess? From what I can figure from prices.” That was one of the few things Weiss took to quite easily, knowing what to buy and how to sell, or, at least, talking merchants into taking what he offers. 

While Weiss sits at Piper’s desk, drawing out ideas, Danse mostly paces. He knows he's being a poor host, but he's trying to remember the layout of campus buildings, trying to figure if there is anything he can remember that will give them an advantage. Though often times now, pre-War structures are gutted on the inside.

He remembers the dormitory, how they put Felix Cera inside the dumbwaiter and had him ride to the no longer accessible basement. Felix was the only one small enough to fit inside. They'd thought that he would be able to open the chained basement door from the other side, and then they could explore the tunnels under the school. But once he reached the bottom, he yelled to be brought back up. The way was blocked in either direction.

At eight, Danse leaves for the marketplace. Weiss gets up to kiss him before he goes, taking the time to squeeze Danse’s waist. Getting back behind Piper’s desk, he throws his socked feet up. He tries to work out the layout of the computer science lab. Though he was only ever in there the week he was sleeping with Ginny Emerson. She'd been a compulsive liar, claiming to have been to fat camp at age six, then that she had brain surgery over Thanksgiving break, even though she returned to campus with a full head of dark curls.

The door opens, and while he's expecting Danse, he's no less happy to see Piper in her pageboy cap, MacCready tight on her heels. She looks tired, exhausted, but she's safe. Preston comes in last.

“Good, you're back. Heard you went on a settlement run?” Weiss hops up. He tries to keep the nervousness out of his voice. He had been worried, “Did it go well? Virgil did have a lead about the Institute.”

Piper perks up immediately “So Virgil is real,” she’s always one for a story “Tell me everything.”

“He's from biosciences. And get this, guy made himself into a supermutant, er, don’t tell Danse that, though. But that's how he lives in the Glowing Sea. Wild, right? Wild. The guy is huge. But still sharp. Anyway, we need to kill a Courser,” he tries to make it sound like no big deal.

But MacCready is spooked, start to finish. He says he doesn't want to go, and from the pinched sound of his voice, Weiss knows no amount of caps will change his mind. Weiss isn't about to push him. He can only hope that this doesn't end their working together for good. 

Preston is more than willing to help. While his priority is always first to help the people of the Commonwealth, he understands quite clearly that the Institute remains a threat to those simply trying to make a better world. 

When Val’s name comes up, MacCready interjects, harshly. “No!”

And Weiss hesitates, because he realizes, quite suddenly, MacCready...and Val...he tries to replay select scenes of the two together. Standing at the noodle bar, Val holding his bowl out for the merc. Before they left for the Glowing Sea, how Val smelled sharply of sweat. Weiss doesn't...quite understand what that would mean. Well, kind of. Val's a synth sure, but not like, a synthy-synth. And if he considers Val a friend, what's to stop MacCready from considering him a lover? Is it really that strange?

“Piper, then. The four of us can do it.” Three wouldn't be enough. Although he doesn't want to put Piper in harm’s way. He's out of other options. 

“Really,” Piper scoffs, “I finally get a combat mission. When you're out of other options?”

 

Weiss’ mood shifts quite suddenly. And he's not entirely sure it's really about Piper at all. Because he can't get the idea out of his head. Val is a synth, and a great friend. He should be happy for him and MacCready, but all he feels is sour.

“Yeah,” Weiss counters, angrier than he intends, “that's what this is about, Piper.”

Before he does something really rash, or stupid, before she can grab his hand and remind him of what a petty child he is, Weiss excuses himself, letting Piper and Preston know he’ll see them in the morning. Tomorrow, whatever. He just, doesn't want to be here anymore.


	16. Try to Look Like this was the Plan from the Start

Even at a distance, Danse can tell Weiss is upset. His shoulders hunch forwards, his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, bulging around his fists. The air is still cold, and he’s not wearing his coat. 

Danse tries to complete his transaction with Rodriguez as quickly as possible, handing over caps from his pocket, but Weiss pushes in beside him. 

“Sorry, sorry, we’re changing staffing.” He takes a breath and slows down, “What have you ordered so far?”

Rodriguez doesn’t seem to mind, going down the list: 112 E-cells, 24 .308s, 38 5.56s, 6 fragmentation grenades. Weiss had not requested the grenades, but they can be invaluable in otherwise impossible situations. At each item Weiss nods, letting the merchant know he’s still paying attention.

“Forget the .308s,” he says, once the order is complete. “Give me...I don’t know, a few dozen 10mms instead.” His fingers tap on the counter. “And what do you have in terms of chest pieces? Smaller ones?”

“How small?” Rodriguez is already swapping out the ammunition change for Weiss. While his back is turned, Danse brushes his fingers over Weiss’ knuckles, trying to still his pattering. 

“What happened?” Danse asks.

“Piper-small,” Weiss tells the merchant. He drops the volume of his voice to speak to Danse, “Changes, that’s all.”

Rodriguez heads further towards the back of his shop, crouching down to sort through armor pieces. It gives them another moment to speak. “The merc is not coming?” The .308s were for his sniper rifle.

“MacCready and Val…” Weiss trails off, then smiles quite suddenly. “It’s not safe for Val to go Courser hunting is all.”

Danse is unsure. While he may not be on friendly terms with MacCready, and the merc’s tactical decisions are often suspect, he is a highly skilled shot. The synth is in rather poor condition, but it is still accurate enough, and responds well to commands issued by humans. They would have been suitable to accompany Weiss and Danse to hunt this Courser. 

“And Garvey?” Danse has not yet seen the Minuteman in combat, but from everything he has heard, Garvey should at least be up to the task.

“Yeah, he’s coming.”

Rodriguez returns and their conversation ceases. He’s brought two options in terms of body armor. Both of them should fit Wright, though he suggests the slightly larger one. It will not fit quite so close to her body, but will allow her to layer additional pieces underneath if necessary. Weiss ends up purchasing both, saying, with a smile, that he will let her decide. 

Once their transaction is complete, Weiss motions for Danse to take one of the boxes. They walk the purchases back to Publick Occurrences, but do not go inside. Weiss deposits his box in front of the door. “Just set it down.”

“Why are we not going inside?” Danse’s pack is still next to Nat’s bed. Weiss only has his own over his shoulder. 

Weiss whistles, sharp and loud. It hurts Danse’s ears. “The others just got back. They’re probably resting.” 

A heavily built dog trots up to them, panting as he comes. His ears are up and tail down. He looks delighted to see Weiss, speeding up as he gets closer. Weiss crouches down to grab his head, folding his hands over the dog’s erect ears before releasing and letting them pop back up. He does it twice more before kissing the dog’s nose. There is a child-sized green handprint painted on the dog’s back. “Watch this shit until Piper gets it, yeah?”

There’s no possible way the dog could understand what Weiss has just told him. But Weiss then tells him to sit, and he obeys immediately. 

“This is your dog?” Danse asks.

Weiss shrugs, “Sort of? Dogmeat is what he wants to be.” He laughs, “Don’t think so hard about it.”

They wander aimlessly through the Diamond City streets for a long while. Weiss keeps hold of Danse’s hand. With no particular destination in mind, Danse notices things that he hasn’t before. There are more children here than he expected, though they rarely appear to be in the presence of their parents. They run along the narrow alleys, their fingers trailing against the metal walls of residences. Not one of them looks afraid. Not one of them looks hungry. They are all happy with their lot in life. 

The ground is soft in places, hard in others, depending on how heavily trafficked. Weiss leads him out of the alleys and into the compact farms where the city grows tatos, corn, and a small patch of melons. It’s not enough to feed the settlement, not by a long shot, but it’s there. It’s growing. And maybe that alone is the point. That they can tend the earth and make it sprout again. Irrigation channels run along either side of the crops, letting them wet the earth when needed. But it rains quite frequently in the Commonwealth, even if the droplets are stung with radiation. 

As they walk through the gardens, Weiss skims over the plants with his free hand, careful enough not to break the leaves and branches. He’s quieter than before, not breaking up their walk with one-sided conversation, as he normally would.

Past the crops, there is really only the wall left. A green shield against the dangers of the Wasteland. But even this cannot keep them safe. There are synths among them, surely. Even in the peace of Diamond City’s walls, Danse cannot be totally at ease. A population this large must be heavily infiltrated, if the Brotherhood’s suspicions are correct. And they usually are.

“I never really liked baseball,” dropping Danse’s hand, Weiss stares at the wall. They’re so close now, the wall takes up the entire field of vision. Solid green cut by white lines. “But I might have liked bringing Shaun here. Nate--it doesn’t matter.”

Unsure at first, Danse takes a step towards Weiss, puts his hand at the small of Weiss’ back. It’s an attempt at comfort. Always, his attempts are muddled. But Weiss seems to respond well enough, leaning until his back bumps against Danse’s chest

\--

They do not return to the paper. Instead, Weiss leads them back to the bar. Though it is early yet, he tells the quieter Bobrov that he needs a room, until the morning. Caps and keys exchange hands.

It is not the same room they had last night, but it is similar. The light bulbs are working properly, and the bedding smells strongly of disinfectant. The rooms here are not clean, not by any stretch of the imagination. But the brothers do put in a token effort. 

Weiss drops his pack on the bed, opening it up and reaching inside. “Go ahead and sit down.” There are no chairs in the room, so Danse must sit on the bed. Weiss rolls up his shirtsleeves now that they are inside. From his bag, he pulls a stack of papers. Scratched over with ink, Danse recognizes them as the drawings and notes Weiss had been working on earlier. “Okay,” he drops the pack to the floor, before sitting cross-legged on the bed as well.

Danse leans over to untie his boots, pulling them off before putting his feet up. 

Spread out across the rest of the available space, the papers blanket the bed. Weiss speaks quickly, “This is basically everything I remember from CIT” He seems to have a sense of purpose, knowing where everything is in his notes. Though, it simply looks like a mess to Danse. “These are building layouts for the Rotunda, the East Campus Residence hall...um Maseeh and New House. I’ve been in more of the Halls than these, but I can’t remember clearly enough. Also, there are tunnels, under the residence halls. I’ve made some notes, about other buildings though.”

“Weiss,” Danse needs him to be more direct in what he is asking. “What do you need?”

Weiss pulls on the end of his ponytail, “I’d made all of these for MacCready to look over. So he could try and make some decisions before we went in. You know,” he waves his hand, “tactics. But since he’s not coming with us,” Weiss shoves the papers towards Danse. “I need your help.”

Taking the short stack of papers, Danse starts leafing through them. The drawings are surprisingly good. They’re not detailed, or artistic, but they’re practical, with straight lines, hallways and elevators and staircases clearly labeled in neat type.

“This shows the buildings in relation to each other,” Weiss continues, “And the dotted lines are where I think the tunnels should connect. We saw diagrams, once. But we were never able to get down there.”

“So they are inaccessible?”

“We sent a classmate down once. He said they were blocked, but, if you think there is an advantage there? It may be worth a shot.”

They spend hours going over Weiss’ notes. Danse feels more content than he has in...years really. That Weiss trusts him with this. That they have only grown closer since becoming more intimate. Weiss brushes his hand against Danse’s knee when he stands. He says he’ll go get dinner, bring it back to the room so they can keep working. But really, they are almost through the sparse plans they are able to devise. 

Everything that Weiss wants focuses on putting himself out front, then Danse, Garvey, and Wright furthest out of harm’s way. Danse would rather Weiss stay back with Wright. But knowing what little he does about Coursers, Danse is unsure if they’ll really be able to divide up the damage in a predictable way.

When Weiss returns, it’s with nothing but pre-War packaged foods. He apologizes, saying that dinner was already sold out. Danse hasn’t realized that the hour is so late. They tear through the plastic and boxes. Weiss laughs as he eats.

“What is so funny?” Danse asks, once his mouth is empty.

“Nothing, I just love you so much,” he smiles.

Danse turns his head away. But, no, that’s not right. Because he wants this, he wants this so badly. Everything Weiss claims to offer. When he faces Weiss again, the smile has barely faded.

“I love you too.”

Leaning forward, Weiss kisses him. He tastes like powdered sugar from the snack cakes.

\--

“You want to learn?” Vishnu asks.

Danse replies, “Yes.”

Kneeling next to Danse on the floor, Vishnu takes his face in both of his hands. “If you want me to stop, just say. And I will.”

“Yes.”

He’s inexperienced, but not a child. Danse knows well enough what he wants.

Going to his pack, Vishnu looks for something. From his place at the foot of the bed, Danse can’t tell exactly what it is Vishnu searched for. He sits back on his heels, hands on the tops of his thighs, and waits for Vishnu to finish whatever it is he’s doing.

“Leave your shirt on. Take off your pants and underwear.” He’s still standing out of Danse’s line of sight. 

Because he has not been told to stand, Danse does what he can to shift between one knee, then the other, stripping away his pants and placing them aside. It’s cold in the small room. The bed would be warmer, but he hasn’t earned it yet. He wants to prove himself. 

His cock is hard, straining towards his abdomen, touching against the fabric of his shirt. He wants this. So badly he wants this. To be praised and consumed and wanted. He keeps his hands on his thighs and waits. 

Vishnu steps behind him, still dressed in his slacks and shirt. There is something in his hands. He doesn’t show Danse what it is. Kneeling behind Danse, Vishnu grabs his arm, pulling it behind Danse’s back. Then the other. He loops soft fabric around his wrists, again and again, before knotting it off. It’s not enough to properly restrain Danse. A suggestion of dominance, not an absolute.

Danse thinks, maybe, he wants the absolute.

Standing, Vishnu circles him again, this time coming to stand in front of Danse. “Come up,” Vishnu taps at Danse’s chin. “Onto your knees,” he withdraws his hand. Bringing his long fingers to the front of his slacks, Vishnu undoes the button first, then the zip. Danse can see plainly enough the outline of his erection, sitting against his leg. 

He pulls his cock out, holding it to Danse’s lips. The tip is moist against Danse’s mouth. But he keeps his teeth closed. Vishnu has not yet told him to-

“Open your mouth.”

Danse drops his jaw open, excessively so, as wide as he can manage. He sticks out his tongue, showing Sir where he should put his cock.

“Cover your teeth with your lips. If you bite me, I’ll have to punish you. Do you understand?” It’s almost teasing, but it’s cruel too, sending a soft shock down Danse’s spine. He contorts his mouth, trying to figure how his lips are supposed to pull over his teeth. By the time Vishnu begins pressing his cock into Danse’s mouth, he’s still not sure he’s got it right.

Vishnu tangles his hand in Danse’s hair, gripping tight and pulling forward. Forcing his cock into Danse’s mouth. When Danse gags, having hit his soft palate, Vishnu stops, lets the choking subside. He stops using Danse’s hair to direct him, thrusting his hips shallowly instead. 

“Fuck, you look so amazing like this,” on each stroke, he dips further into Danse’s mouth. When he goes a touch too far, Danse instinctively goes to hold him back with his hands. But when he feels the soft restraints around his wrists, he freezes, realizing that he tried to disobey. “You have such a pretty mouth. Nice lips, perfect for fucking. Like you were made to suck cock.” Weiss slaps lightly at Danse’s cheek, holding his cock so that Danse’s mouth bulges around it. Just as Danse is sure he’ll be short of air, Vishnu pulls back out, far enough to breathe.

Leaving just the head of his cock between Danse’s lips, Vishnu explains. “I’m going to fuck your mouth now. I’m not going to be gentle.”

Danse keeps his eyes down, lapping his tongue at the underside of Vishnu’s cock as his assent. 

Grabbing his hair again, Vishnu slams his cock down Danse’s throat, almost all the way to the hilt. He starts to choke, but instead, he tries to swallow, and that’s better, better. He doesn’t feel like he has to gag anymore, expel the obstruction from his throat. Danse is pulled forward, as Vishnu matches his hips with his hands, impaling Danse’s mouth on each stroke. There are tears in the corners of Danse’s eyes. But more than that, he feels content. Because standing over him, Vishnu is loud, panting breaths and moans. 

“So, so good. You’re such a good boy. Such a pretty mouth. Pretty cock. Mine, mine, mine.”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Danse feels his cock bounce against his abdomen as he’s yanked around. He wants to touch himself. Wants to come. He wants Vishnu to touch him. He wants Vishnu to come. He wants all these things and he wants them all at once.

“No one else will ever see you like this. I won’t let them. Ever, ever.” With his hand on the back of Danse’s head, Vishnu holds him in place as he comes. Danse wills his throat to work, swallowing the cum as it spurts into his mouth, filling him. “That’s it, take it. Swallow it down.” Vishnu eases back with his hips, until his cock falls out of Danse’s mouth.

Crouching in front of Danse, Vishnu’s eyes are bright. “What do you say?” He wipes at the corner of Danse’s eye.

“Thank you, Sir.” Danse tilts his head to kiss Vishnu’s hand. 

“Do you want to come?”

Danse nods, “Yes, Sir.” He hisses, “Please.”

Smiling wickedly, he commands, “Get on your stomach.”

Falling to his hands and knees first, Danse lowers himself to the floor. The wood is cold against his chest and stomach, even colder against his cock.

Vishnu leaves for a moment, but only to the mattress. When he returns, he shoves a pillow under Danse’s hips, elevating him slightly off the floor. His fingers are slick as he pierces inside of Danse, working him open with slow thrusts. In and out, in and curl until Danse groans into the floorboards. It’s good, but it’s so painfully slow. 

“I can’t decide how I like you best.” Vishnu’s other hand runs along Danse’s spine. It’s slick as well. “With my cock in your mouth, or your ass, on your back or facing me. Fuck. I bet you’d look like sin with my cock between your pecs. Wouldn’t you? Sticking out your tongue to taste?”

Danse’s breath hitches again as Vishnu presses inside, shorter strokes now, but more intense. 

The hand at his spine reaches between his legs and Vishnu starts to stroke Danse’s cock in time with the thrust of his fingers, making the warmth in his stomach spiral. As Danse comes, he thrusts against the pillow, trying to kill the sobs in his throat. It’s such a relief, having the pressure let go, distribute across his skin instead of being pinned inside him, caged with nowhere to go. 

He feels Vishnu kissing the small of his back as he draws his fingers out. 

Boneless still, and unable to move, Dane waits until Vishnu coaxes him. “Love, lets get into bed, yeah? I put everything away.” He offers his hand up.

When Danse stands, he lets himself crash softly against Vishnu’s more narrow chest. Wrapping his arms around Danse’s waist, Vishnu laughs into his hair. “Good then? I hope?”

“Hmm,” he’s still happily buzzed from orgasm. But he knows Vishnu isn’t strong enough to move him. But he does guide Danse towards the bed, though he must make his own feet move. They curl in the center of the mattress. Danse pulls the sheet over them both.

When he speaks again, Vishnu keeps his voice low, like a secret between them. “You’re too good to me. Fuck,” he puts his hand to Danse’s chest, “you’re so fucking responsive.” He starts to play with Danse’s hair. 

“And...was I satisfactory?”

Vishnu laughs, “Outstanding, even.”


	17. Blood Will Flow in Whatever Direction You Force It

Early yet, Danse is still asleep. But Weiss can’t leave without telling him where he’s going. So gently, gently, he shakes Danse awake by the shoulder, holding on to him and pushing slightly. A bit more pressure again, until Danse stirs. 

His eyes open, still cloudy, still perfect, just on the verge of amber. His lips are set in a frown, but he doesn’t look sad, only still sleepy. “Vishnu?” His voice is soft, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, love,” Weiss is careful to kiss him, make sure they’re both still solid. Because all too easily, he might lose this, Danse slipping through his fingers like sand, getting stuck to the hands of other men. Ones who tell him lies about himself. That he is unloved. That he is only valuable as a soldier. As someone who kills well. 

Today they leave to kill a Courser. 

He wants to bite Danse’s cheeks, turn them red. Bite him everywhere, mark him up. 

“I need to go talk to Piper. I want you to stay here while I do. Is that alright?” He runs his hand along Danse’s side, dipping in at the waist. Really, he’d rather stay here, work Danse’s cock into his mouth, suck him off, and make sure he’s satiated. But he can’t avoid Piper forever. And the first time he sees her can’t be with Danse there, or Preston. “Will you be okay?” Since Weiss joined the Brotherhood, they have not been parted for long. An hour or so yesterday, when Danse went to the marketplace. That has maybe been the longest single interval. 

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Danse pushes up onto one arm, looking more awake now. “When should I meet you, and where?”

“At Publick Occurrences.” He looks at his pipboy for the time, “I should only need about thirty minutes? I still want to leave as soon as possible.”

“Then I will see you in thirty minutes,” Danse responds, slumping back onto the mattress. Before he leaves, Weiss squeezes Danse’s hand.

\--

Preston opens the door, his eyes heavy-lidded with sleep. A normal man would curse Weiss out, for having woken him too early, but not Preston, of course not Preston. “Weiss? Did the alarm not go off?” He looks back into the office, as if the answer will be there.

“Ah, no, I just wanted to speak with Piper.”

Nodding, Preston lets him in. He scratches at the center of his bare chest, before heading for the kettle. “I’ll make coffee.”

“Piper prefers tea,” Weiss says absentmindedly. 

He heads to the back of the building, taking the ladder up to Piper’s bed. The lights are turned low, her back to Weiss as he reaches the top of the steps, a blanket thrown over her body. Cautiously, he sits at the side of her bed. This would have been easier if she had woken with the knock at the door. But she can sleep like a log.

Nudging her shoulder, he tries to stir her awake, “Piper?’ Her form moves, however slightly. “Piper?”

She rolls over onto her back, throwing her arm across her eyes, though the room is still dark. “Vishnu?” Her voice is hoarse. 

“You got the supplies?” He asks. That’s innocent enough. 

“Yeah,” she keeps rolling until she’s on her other side, facing him. Reaching out with one hand, she grabs his wrist. “We can return the smaller one. It didn’t fit.”

“Mm Arturo thought as much,” he shifts his hand to run along her side. 

Piper’s eyes close, then open wide. “I’m not a child, Vishnu.”

“I know.”

“I’ve probably experienced more firefights than you have.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need you to protect me.”

He uses his free hand to cover his face, “I know, Piper.”

“What is this about, then?”

Weiss slides into bed with her, resting his head against the pillow, and his hand on her waist. “Is it too much to believe I don’t want you to get hurt? That I don’t want to lose you?”

“That doesn’t stop you from taking Nick everywhere. Or Danse.”

She’s right, of course she is. 

“I know.”

“So stop worrying,” she presses the tips of her fingers to his cheek. “You're not going to lose me.” She bites her bottom lip, “Listen, Vishnu, I know you care about him,” she doesn’t have to say the name. “But you’re going to get hurt.” Her fingers thread through his hair, trying to break up the strands. It’s been awhile since he last washed it. “I don't want to lose you either.”

“I can get him out, I know I can.”

“Don’t you see?” Piper interjects, “It’s the same. Sort of,” she wrinkles her nose. As the argument continues, she’s generating her objections as she goes. “You think you can protect all of us. You can’t protect any of us. We don’t need it. We’re here to help the Wasteland....” She trails off. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What?” His eyes start to drift closed. It’s warm, here next to her. The quiet sounds of Preston boiling water downstairs just barely reaches them.

“We went to Covenant, me, Robert, Preston. They...Vishnu, it’s going to come up on the radio,” her voice is pinched. He opens his eyes to watch her, but now hers are closed. Her dark hair falls along the line of her neck. “I don’t know what people are going to think...they were kidnapping people, Vishnu, saying they were synths. They were torturing them in an underground facility, beneath the lake. A Doctor Chambers believed she could detect synths using a battery of psychological tests,” the longer Piper speaks, the stronger her voice. Shifting out of vulnerability and into the register of reporter. She takes herself out of the story. “The settlement was a front to lure in synths for her experiments. Everything was organized, accounted for. A trap to feed her delusions. Every single person in the settlement knew. We couldn’t…” her hesitation returns. “We killed them. I killed them.”

“Piper,” he trusts her judgement, absolutely. And she wasn’t by herself. MacCready and Preston were with her. But she speaks as if the decision was hers and hers alone to make. 

“I couldn’t let it continue, Vishnu. Knowing what I did. I thought about...exposing them. Right? Writing about it, bringing them to justice. It’s what I should have done. It's what people...like us do.”

Weiss knows what she means. Because Piper understands his reservations. Maybe it's part of the reason he doesn't want to put her in danger. Not because she’ll die, but because she’ll have to kill. But he's had to stamp down the person he thought he was to make it this far. She’ll do it too. And maybe they’ll end up wrecked, but they’ll fix the Commonwealth in the process. Isn't that a noble goal?

“We can't look back,” he says. They twine their fingers together. Her hands are so small in his. 

\--

Weiss remembers when the quad had grass, students, and expectation. When men and women crossed the expanse on the way to classes, they smiled and joked, shoved and struck. A whole mess of actions, drunk, high, sober. He’d graduated in 2064. Things weren’t so terribly bad then. Right? He’s not sure. Maybe he just couldn’t see through his own amusement and success.

But now CIT is dead and empty, a graveyard without bodies. They conduct a thorough sweep of the grounds, looking for ghouls, raiders, synths. Weiss tells Piper and Preston to listen to Danse. He is to issue their combat commands. They are to find anything or anyone who might slow their progress towards finding a Courser. They come up with nothing. 

Weiss tunes his pipboy to the frequency Virgil instructed, listening for an unusual hum. Looking away from his wrist for a moment, he lights a cigarette, putting it to his lips. Preston does the same, leaning against the exterior of the rotunda. They're in the clear for now, and have addictions to satiate. 

“Okay, so Virgil said I should walk around, follow the frequency.” Weiss has to keep his eyes on his pipboy screen while he walks, noting how the tones change with each step. His feet lead rather than his eyes. A hand comes to his shoulder, pulling him back just before he's about to crash into a decorative pillar. Weiss laughs, of all the things to survive the end of the last world.

“What's so funny?” Danse asks, because of course he was the one to stop Weiss from bumping into the obstruction.

Weiss waves him off with his cigarette before sticking it back between his lips, “You know, just, thinking, about before.” He resumes their walk. The noise from the pipboy gets sharper, louder. Now that he knows Danse is keeping track of where he steps, Weiss moves forward with impunity. “So much of the frivolous stuff survived, you know? And the useful stuff got eaten up.”

“Your time was...decadent,” Danse says, as if he knows anything about Weiss’ life.

“No,” Weiss bites into the filter by accident. “Maybe my parent’s generation. But not me. Things were already...different.”

“From everything you have said, you wanted for nothing,” Danse isn't wrong.

“I was successful. Nate was too. There was still room in the world for people like us.” For weaponized men. Both him and Nate both, though ones of differing ammunition. “But that wasn't true of everyone.”

The hum leads them out of the quad, down one of the straight-cut paths of campus. Each time he is about to misstep, Danse directs him with a tap on the arm, a slight push. When the clatter on the radio becomes deafening, Weiss finally looks up for himself.

They're a bit off campus. Just in a grouping of buildings occupied by alumni who couldn't bear the thought of straying too far. So they set up their experimental laboratories as close to CIT as their budgets would allow. Some of them got really cushy grants, providing they could convince the government of their importance to the War effort. To America.

The building is labeled “Greetech Genetics,” a hulking, mint and rust colored structure that reaches up above the landscape, utterly out of place with the low buildings that make up most of the campus. Weiss tries to remember anything about the firm that might be useful once they’re inside. Finny Gonzalez interned with a genetics firm one summer, working with their patent lawyers. But not in this building. Maybe it hadn’t been constructed yet? Or maybe it was a different company. 

“The Courser is in here.” Weiss puts out his cigarette against the wall, walking over to tip it into the trash can at the edge of the short stairs leading up to the door. The lid has blown off and there’s a hole in the bottom, so the butt just drops through onto the concrete below. “What’s the plan, Danse?”

They haven’t come in their power armor. Weiss convinced Danse that it would be difficult to maneuver inside the CIT buildings with the tin cans around them. Plus, the Courser already has an agility advantage over them. They need to be able to move quickly. Instead, they’re in combat armor, more dynamic and flexible. Weiss straps his first stealthboy to his right wrist. It won’t be his last today, he’s sure. 

“Everyone should stay behind me. Move in formation, keeping hallways secure. We’ll clear room by room, make sure nothing comes up behind us. If we’re lucky, it will only be the Courser inside.” Danse checks the ammunition in his laser rifle. “Garvey, I want you to watch the rear. Weiss and Wright, watch where I shoot. It’s of the utmost importance to take down targets as quickly as possible.” He hesitates before continuing. “If there are other synths inside, make no assumptions about their number.

“We go in on three.”

Danse counts down, kicking the door open and disappearing into the darkened atrium. Further into the building, the lights are on. Incredibly bright and sharp compared to the haze of the sunny Wasteland. Even though they were anything but subtle coming inside, no threat greets them at the door. But Weiss can hear gunfire, and screaming, dying. People are dying here. 

A staticy voice cuts through the noise. The thud of furniture being toppled, bodies crumpling to the floor, sharp sounds of agony.

“Stay with the Courser. Do not let it get away,” the voice crackles. 

“Gunners,” Preston observes, “they’re chasing the Courser too.”

The noise of gunshots bounces off the walls. 

“Stay behind me,” Danse reminds them, as they stalk across the lobby. 

Weiss looks up. The halls above are open, letting him see all the way up to the skylight ceiling above. Two floors above them, a figure dressed in black runs along the railing. It turns sharply on its heels, emptying four rounds of its laser rifle. The screams are loud, but short lived. The air smells of sweet ash. 

“Above us,” Weiss hisses, “It’s getting away.” Hitting the switch on his stealthboy, Weiss pushes past Danse, into the stairwell. He can feel Danse reach for him, but he grabs at nothing but air as Weiss takes the stairs. 

Footsteps race behind him. Weiss takes the steps two at a time, stepping over Gunners’ bodies, piles of ash too. They’re bloody, desecrated messes, lying in heaps where they fell, downed by the Courser. Weiss doesn’t have time to stop, to think. But he reaches into his pocket, taking three pills. He bites into them, filling his mouth with chalky red powder as they fall apart. But he can’t wait for them to dissolve. 

The overhead lights flicker, but stay on. Another scream echoes through the lobby as Weiss ascends. Behind him, he can hear two sets of footsteps. Danse and Piper, probably. They don’t call for him, that would only draw more attention. His long stride keeps him well ahead of them.

Everything starts to sharpen as the mentats take hold. His vision improves, his reflexes too. He has to get to the next staircase. The Gunners’ bodies are still warm as he streaks past them. 

The next stairwell is collapsed, but he has to get up to the next level. Grabbing hold of a steel beam, he tries to hoist himself up onto the pile of rubble. He cuts his hand along the metal, making it slippery with blood. But there isn’t time to stop. They need the chip. They need it.

Nate wouldn’t stop. Nate would be strong enough to pull himself up. Weiss reaches forward with his other hand, grabbing hold and dragging himself onto the debris. His footing is uneasy and his hand slick. Throwing himself towards the next floor, he scrambles onto the tile, fighting gravity the whole way. He strains a muscle at his hip. But he makes it to his feet, continuing his run.

The stairway must slow Danse, but for the first time he hears Piper’s voice. “Vishnu! Stop!” She’s not fast enough to catch him, but he halts in his tracks. The stealthboy is fading out. He has to go into his pack for the next one. With the Gunners ahead of him all dead, he won’t use this one until he reaches the Courser. 

“We have to keep moving.” He tosses the used stealthboy to the ground. 

Piper bends at her waist, trying to catch her breath. “You can’t kill it alone. You need us.” 

“I also can’t let it get away!” 

Grabbing his arm, Piper keeps him from bolting. “We will catch the Courser. But it won’t make one bit of difference if you’re fucking dead.”

Danse catches up. His hands are cut raw as well. He must have lifted Piper up above the debris before pulling himself up onto the next floor. “We should go.”

They have to rely on the Gunners slowing the Courser’s escape. 

At the top floor, the Courser waits, three Gunners tied at its feet. Pathetic, whimpering messes. They are meant to be hostages, or examples. 

“We need something, from you,” Weiss’ mouth is dry.

“I have only come for the synth.” The Courser’s eyes turn to one of the still-closed offices on the eighth floor. Inside a pale-faced woman with brown hair stares blankly through the glass. She doesn’t look afraid. If anything, she is definant. “What you need is unimportant. Step aside, or I will eliminate you.”

Weiss hits the stealthboy at his wrist. 

“Weiss! No!” Danse calls. But Weiss is already closing the distance between himself and the Courser. He raises his pistol to fire, then the Courser cloaks as well. Shit.

He has to listen for footsteps, gunfire, anything that will tell him where the Courser went. Piper shouts, cursing sharply, “Where the fuck did they go?”

The Courser fires in her direction, but Piper is quick enough to get back behind cover in time. The laser fire gives Weiss an idea where the Courser may be standing. He darts towards that space, keeping his pistol raised. Firing two shots in quick succession, he hits. The contact makes the stealth field bend, and Danse takes the opportunity to fire as well. 

While the Courser may not bleed on impact, it stutters. Weiss goes to fire again, but the synth is already gone, his shots hit the opposite wall instead. He feels the heat at his back too late. The Courser tackles him to the ground. When they hit the tile, the stealth field around both of them breaks into static. Weiss sees blood on the floor. His blood, streaming from his face from the impact. He tries to push himself back up, but the Courser has him by the neck, holding him in place with its weight.

This is it. This is how he dies.

There’s a gunshot, and a shadow. And the weight is gone. The Courser’s nails rake down his neck, slicing open his skin. Without thinking, Weiss rolls onto his back, kicking away from the Courser. He slides along the tile. When he does look up, he sees Danse’s back, the Courser’s legs under him. Then the crack of Danse’s fists against the Courser’s face.

Piper grabs his arm, helping Weiss up off the floor. “We have to help him,” she reloads her pistol. But the Courser has already gone quiet. Danse’s breathing is louder than anything else in the room. Preston comes through the hallway, his rifle drawn as well. “Oh, thank God. You’re all alive.” 

Danse still looms over the corpse, his back rising and falling as he breathes. 

Weiss’ vision narrows. There’s still blood running down his shirt. Soaking it red. 

“Danse, Danse,” he grabs Danse by the shoulders trying to pull him away. His brown eyes are wide. But this is what Danse does. Danse hates synths. He kills them. So why does he look so afraid? Why does his bottom lip look swollen, his face covered in sweat and a thin sheen of blood. The Coursers bleed. Weiss didn’t realize. Maybe he should have. “Oh, fuck, Danse.”

Pulling Danse up by the front of his shirt, Weiss crashes his body against his. He searches out Danse’s lips, finding them, biting them until Danse hisses back. He forgets himself for a moment. Because Danse looks like seafoam. Only there because he crashed against the rocks with such force. Just as soon to dissipate back into nothing. But that’s not it. That’s not anything. 

They could so easily be the ash that smells like burnt sugar, clogging up the arteries of the Commonwealth.


	18. Flowers Bloom Well Enough in Stable Soil

Weiss’ body pushes against his, backing them both into a thick column, holding up the skylighted roof over their heads. The eighth floor is bright, blindingly so. The glass elevator reflects everything, making the sun fall into prisms around them.

There is blood on Danse’s fists, on his face, in his hair. The air around him smells like copper. Like death. He's killed many people. He's killed ghouls and supermutants and animals and synths. Humans, too. A great many lives and not-lives have flickered out because of him. But, normally, it is not so close.

When he pulled the trigger, looking into Culter’s eyes, there was no recognition there. His friend had died long ago. When he looked into the Courser’s eyes, there was something else. Not fear. Not prideful resignation. Synths don't feel. They're not human. Never human. But the Courser blinked, and in that moment, Danse hated nothing more than those eyes.

Weiss’ hands are at his waistband, pulling open Danse’s fly, brushing his long fingers against his cock. His lips skim at Danse’s throat at he descends. Faintly, Danse remembers that Wright and Garvey are here, with them. He puts his hands on Weiss’ shoulders, meaning to stop him. Not appropriate, not appropriate. But instead of stopping, he only squeezes, his hand drifting into Weiss’ hair, the almost-curly strands sliding between his fingers. If his hair were shorter, it might look wavier.

Yanking down Danse’s pants, Weiss kneels before him, his hands brace against Danse’s hips, pinning him in place. He doesn't talk, neither of them talk. Weiss dips his head forward, wrapping his lips around Danse’s cock, warm and wet and all at once. Danse hisses, his legs already straining from the adrenaline spikes, the up up up of the fight, the crash of the light going out of the Courser’s eyes, the soft intensity of Weiss dragging him through unexpected pleasures against his skin.

Danse lets his eyes drift closed, but he's aware of every touch, every swipe of Vishnu’s tongue against him. He keeps his blood streaked fingers in Vishnu’s hair. The pillar at his back keeps him upright, otherwise, he's not so sure he could stay standing. Not with the sure, steady way Vishnu swallows him down, all the way to the base of his cock, then pulling back. Over and over until he's ready to collapse. He makes the mistake of pulling too hard, Vishnu hissing, but not stopping. He knocks his head against the concrete. Danse looks down, and it’s over.

Because it feels good, yes. Warm and tighter than he thought it would be. But more than that, it's the thrill of being here, being alive and wanted. Wanted so intensely they're both acting rashly. Without concern.

He comes down Vishnu’s throat, erratically pumping his hips. Vishnu isn't really strong enough to hold him in place. Leverage is all wrong. Can't hold him up either, as Danse starts sliding towards the floor. His hands fly to his face, covering his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He doesn't want to be seen.

Arms wrap around his shoulders, Vishnu practically crawling into Danse’s lap. His lips are moving, “It's okay, you're okay. I'm sorry.”

But Danse doesn't know why Vishnu is sorry. What has gone wrong? He's gone wrong. Oh. Pulling his hands away from his face, he tries to assure, “I'm fine.”

Vishnu runs his fingers through Danse’s hair, smiling, “Yeah, you are.”

Turning his head, Danse looks to either side. Garvey and Wright are nowhere to be seen. The girl behind the glass is gone too. Of course, it's not as if they would have waited. Fuck, he shouldn't have lost control. What an...embarrassment. 

“The synth?”

Weiss shakes his head, “Oh, right.” He pushes himself up onto his feet, dusting off the front of his pants, but they're ruined and torn, blood crusting around one of the tears. He's hurt himself on something. Oh, his neck. The Courser tried to crush his throat. Weiss still bleeds, though it’s slower now.

Weiss crosses the room, leaving Danse on the floor. He crouchs next to the Courser, “Where do you think this chip is? I guess we should take everything that doesn't look...human? Fuck, I didn't expect them to look so human.”

Danse had meant the other synth. The girl behind the glass, the one with defiant eyes. They shouldn't let her get away, disappear into the ether of the Commonwealth, never to be seen again.

Pulling a long knife from his pack, Weiss starts cutting through the Courser’s armor. It's slow going. But once it's open, he starts trying to hack through its chest the same way, but he has trouble cracking the ribs.

“Let me help,” Danse finally wills his body to move. He doesn't realize until he's standing that his pants are still open, his limp cock against his thigh. Tucking himself back in, Danse tries to head off another wave of humiliation. He can only hope the others left quickly. 

Danse is strong enough to break open the Courser’s chest. Blood seeps into everything. This shouldn't be so upsetting. It's not human. It's not. But it bleeds all over their hands, their forearms, as they reach inside its chest. Weiss pulls out a cylindrical object from the Courser’s chest, fatter on one side than the other. It is the same object Danse saw on the x-rays in Amari’s office.

“That’s the synth component. But Virgil said there’d be a separate chip too, just for Coursers.” Weiss looks around, standing up to walk over to a pile of rubble. He picks up a hunk of loose concrete, run through with iron rebar. He struggles to carry it over. Dropping it unceremoniously onto the Courser’s skull, Weiss’ face is impassive as the force of the weight splits its head open. Danse pushes the chunk away. It’s a mess. They’re a mess. 

Weiss picks through what is left, coming away with another metal and plastic object, smaller than the first. He tosses it into his bag without sufficiently cleaning it first. “Let’s go.”

\--

Just outside the gates to Diamond City, Weiss lights a cigarette, the orange end the brightest point of light. He asks Garvey if he wants one too. He does. So does Wright. The three of them smoke while Danse waits. Weiss asks if Nat’s going to get mad, when she smells the smoke on Wright’s jacket.

“Probably,” Wright takes another drag, blowing smoke up into the sky. “I know she wants me to quit, but it’s hard.”

“Good for her, though,” Garvey puts out his stub against the wall, “Means she’ll never start.”

Weiss barely touches his cigarette, only putting it to his lips often enough to keep it from flickering out. “We’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Wright raises her eyebrows, “You’re not coming back to the paper?”

“Nah,” Weiss taps off his ash. “It’ll be crowded enough. Go on inside.”

She listens, though her posture, the way she holds her face, still suggests skepticism. Garvey’s expression is still open, friendly. He tells them both to sleep well.

“We’re not going to the bar, are we?” Danse asks. 

“No, don’t feel like it.” He reaches into his pack, “Did you want to, though? Sleep at the Dugout, I mean? I can give you the caps for it?”

Weiss has said nothing about what it is he plans on doing tonight. The sun is long gone. It’s dangerous to be outside the city walls at night. Raiders, mutants, ghouls, synths, hundreds, if not thousands of ways to die. And his body might never be found. 

“I want to stay with you.”

Weiss nods, “Come on then.”

Danse hesitates, but only because his power armor is still outside Wright’s home. If they are going to behave recklessly, he should at least be equipped to protect them both. But he falls into step behind Weiss, following a path away from Diamond City and out to the edges of the Fens.

“The longer I’m awake, the less I remember,” he still has his cigarette between his fingers. But it’s gone dark. “Everything used to be so clear. But now,” he shakes his head, “I’m starting to think this is how it always looked.”

Each time Danse thinks Weiss will stop, he keeps walking. Further, and further, until they reach the edge of the city again. An expanse of dead trees, dead grass, dead bones buried under collapsed buildings. Or graveless. Danse doesn’t know. He’s not poetic. Weiss lights another cigarette. 

“You need to sleep,” Danse says. Though he’s not certain it’s true.

“So do you,” Weiss doesn’t sound certain either. 

They sit against a tree, sturdy enough at their backs. Danse tries to keep appraised of their surroundings. They can’t sleep here, but they can rest. Weiss takes two mentats, not bothering to hide them as he swallows. His adam’s apple bobs. 

Reaching into his pack, Weiss pulls out a holo. He slips it into the player of his pipboy. The volume is set low, but Danse can still hear it. A voice, not Weiss’ comes through, tinny, and riddled with feedback. He has a different accent, more nasal, higher pitched, longer vowels. Danse has never heard anything like it.

“Ha ha ha. No, no, no. Little fingers away. There we go. Just say it. Right there. Right there. Go ahead.” A baby laughs, Shaun. “Ha ha! Yay! Hi love, Vishnu! Listen.”

It's Nate.

“I don't think Shaun and I need to tell you how great of a father you are... but we're going to anyway. You are kind, and loving.” The baby laughs again. “And funny! Ha ha. That's right. And patient. So patient. Patience of a saint.”

Weiss snickers at that.

“Look, with Shaun, and us all being at home together... It's been an amazing few months. But even so, I know our best days are yet to come. There will be changes, sure. Things we'll need to adjust to. But everything we do, no matter how hard... we do it for our family.

“Now say goodbye, Flower... Bye bye? Say bye bye? 

“Bye Vishnu! We love you!”

The tape clicks, having reached the end.

“Your husband. Your...Nate.” It's not a question.

Weiss pops the holo back out, turning it over and over in his hands. “He recorded this the morning before...I didn't hear it until after. Our Mr. Handy had found it...while I was frozen...while Nate was dead.”

Danse stares out into the night. Facing towards the Fens, he tries to separate the light from the darkness. But even the light doesn't mean safety, warmth, home. It never will.

Weiss puts his hand over Danse’s. His fingers are longer, thinner, with knobby knuckles. The holo sits in the dirt next to their hands. “I made...a lot of mistakes. I'm not going to make them again.” Weiss sounds very far away, though they sit only inches apart. “I love you.”

Danse doesn't think Weiss is speaking to him.

\--

“Can’t you guys keep it down!” Wright’s sister yells from the other room. 

Danse hasn’t said anything. Not since so many of them crowded into Wright’s front office. He and Weiss, Wright, Garvey, MacCready, and the synth. They fill up every available space. Danse presses himself against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, to be unobtrusive. The only really important person in this conversation is Weiss.

Weiss taps his the flat of his foot against Piper’s desk while sitting just on the edge. It supports his weight just fine, but he’s making the whole room shake with his fidgeting. “So, we’ve got to go back to Virgil. He should have the information we need by now. We’ll still need someone who can build the damn thing.” He keeps playing with an unlit cigarette. No doubt he wants to smoke. But he can’t with the girl upstairs. Instead, he rolls it between his hands, taps it against the desk, against his boot, now that he’s finally stopped kicking the desk.

“Sturges could take a look?” Garvey offers.

“Great, awesome. Sure, sure,” Weiss is visibly uncomfortable, more so than before. Danse doesn’t know this “Sturges,” but this shift in Weiss’ demeanor is enough to indicate that he does not like him. There are very few people Weiss appears to actively dislike. The reaction gives Danse pause.

Danse wants to help. The Brotherhood can help, if Weiss needs to build this teleporter. This is an ideal situation where Weiss’ objectives overlap with the Brotherhood’s. “Proctor Ingram would be-”

“No!” Weiss snaps, quite suddenly. Danse tenses where he stands. “How many times do I have to say no?”

“She already has the engineers and materials necessary-” he tries to interject. Because Ingram does. Weiss can have everything he needs for the project, right at his fingertips. Perhaps, they do not even have to return to the Sea. Ingram is quite brilliant in her own way, and exceedingly practical. If she cannot decipher the data, she will find the Scribe who can. Perhaps, they can even relocate Virgil.

But Weiss does not listen, pushing off from the table and towards Danse faster than he thought possible. He slams his hands flat against the wall, to either side of Danse’s head. Arms close enough that Danse can feel the heat of his body, smell the sharpness of Piper’s soap on his skin. His face is twisted, but only for a moment, as he chokes down this spike of rage. “They will kill my son,” he says.

“You don't know that for certain,” Danse responds, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice. Weiss isn’t thinking clearly. Danse is. 

Reaching up, Piper grabs one of Weiss’ wrists, wrenching it away so she can hold his hand between both of hers. “That's enough, Vishnu. Just tell him to leave and let's figure out what we’re doing.

Danse’s heart stops. No, no. He does not want to be sent away. He does not want to be told to leave. But he waits in silence, his lips parted, for what Weiss tells him to do. Because he cannot stay, either. He cannot stay if Weiss does not want him. If he is no longer useful. Against his back, the metal wall feels too hot, like it will burn him. He wants to melt.

Weiss looks to Piper, then back to Danse.

“They don't care about him. They don't care about you either, Danse. You're on the wrong side.”

Danse licks inside his mouth, “And whose side are you on?” 

Something behind Weiss’ eyes shift, a sadness taking over, where before there was frustration. “Go then, if you don't agree. Go and tell them everything, if you think they're so just,” the words cut into Danse’s chest, spilling out his entrails onto the uneven floor for everyone to see. Eviscerated. 

He slides away from the wall, heading towards the door. His protests, his pleas, dry up on his tongue before he can speak them. The door opens more easily than his mouth. No one stops him from leaving.

Quietly, the door clicks closed behind him.

The Commonwealth is bright today. The sky almost-blue, with only hints of cloudy gray. Danse doesn’t know where to go, so he steps towards the marketplace. Really, he should leave. Climb back into his armor, tail between his legs, and return to Cambridge. But no. No. He cannot give up on Weiss. He was only tense, angry, because of his son. Because of the stress, because everything is coming together so quickly. Danse shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He has a few caps. Enough. 

\--

He’s already paid enough caps for the room, a key stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans. This way, he’s not at risk of running out of money before he drags himself to bed. Danse finds a few more at the bottom of his pack, sliding them across the bar for his fifth beer. 

The edges of his words are slightly fuzzy when he thanks Yefim for the beer. He swallows down another gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Gesturing for Yefim to come back, this time he has a question, instead of an order. “How, you and your brother? You don’t talk like anyone I’ve ever heard?” He thinks about Nate’s holotape, his strange vowel sounds.Two hundred and ten years could make a difference, but Weiss sounds like everyone else in the Commonwealth. 

Yefim laughs, deep and hearty from the center of his chest. “Our parents, and our parents parents, and their parents parents. They did not want us to forget. They would not let us forget. What we sounded like, when we came to this country.”

Danse shakes his head. “But how could they remember?” There are other land masses on Earth. Ones that were called ‘Europe,’ ‘Asia,’ ‘Africa’...more. The ground South of what used to be the United States, before the bombs fell. But is has been a very long time since there was movement from continent to continent. He’s still amazed, looking at maps, that Elder Maxson was born the space labeled, “California.” 

Yefim smiles at him, “When it is important enough. You remember.” He pops the top off another beer. “You will always remember what makes you, you.”

Feeling sick to his stomach, Danse pushes his beer away, until it almost topples behind the bar. It’s nearly empty, but he manages to grab it in time.

“Did you need another?” Fingers graze along Danse’s back. He can feel them through the fabric, soft, hesitant. 

Danse shakes his head, “No.”

“Do you need company?” Vishnu’s hand skims from his back to his side. He can’t be more than an inch away, the heat of his chest so close to Danse’s back. Danse folds his hands into his lap. What must this look like? To have Vishnu so close?

“Yes,” and while Danse knows they should speak more, of the Glowing Sea, of the synth, of the teleporter, and the Brotherhood, Danse can’t make the words come. But he can lean back, ever so slightly, until he feels Vishnu’s stomach against his spine. 

He can hear the smile in Vishnu’s voice, “I’ll get us a room.”

“I have one already,” Danse stands up from the barstool, reaching into his pocket for the key. He passes it into Vishnu’s hand, and for the first time this evening they face each other. Vishnu’s smile is soft, the wound along his neck, ragged. Danse reaches forward to touch it. Vishnu lets him.

Leading the way to the room, 4, this time, Vishnu clinks the key against the metal bauble it’s attached to, over and over. The ugly noise is so impossibly loud. He holds the door open for Danse to enter first. But once inside, he doesn’t wait.

“Forgive me,” Vishnu cradles Danse’s face in his hands, kissing his apologies, “Forgive me, love.”

“I’m sorry,” Danse kisses back. “I didn’t, I don’t,” he doesn’t know. 

Vishnu’s fingers slide up from the hem of Danse’s shirt, skimming along his waist. “You’ll come with me, won’t you? I couldn’t...I can’t leave you behind.” 

Danse is dimly aware they are backing towards the bed. Vishnu’s fingers move from his abdomen to the fly of his jeans, working them open, pushing them down. His hands are warm and steady. He’s dosed recently. 

Because he wants to be let in, Danse makes promises he shouldn’t keep. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. “I’ll stay with you, always.”

\--

Weiss tells him, as they are dressing to depart from Diamond City, that Virgil is a supermutant. He offers no mitigating circumstances, no pleas for understanding. Danse stands in silence, clutching his shirt in his hands. Part of him, a distant part, wants to tear the fabric to shreds. Then tear Weiss to shreds, because then Virgil won’t have the opportunity. 

“There is a cure. In his office at the Institute. To turn him back,” Weiss offers, after a long pause.

Danse wills himself not to sob.

\--

Virgil is soft spoken, obviously intelligent, and suitably suspicious. Danse keeps close to the tunnel entrance, his rifle strapped across his back. Before Weiss crosses the room to greet the mutant, he pats Danse’s on the shoulder, whispering, “It’s okay.” 

The synth keeps his hands in the pockets of his trench, standing by Danse’s side at first. Danse can hear his components clicking together, keeping him running. Sickening. 

Once Weiss and Virgil finish exchanging words, Weiss takes a place behind one of the terminals, turning it on and waiting for it to boot. 

“We should get that information to an engineer as soon as possible,” Danse encourages. He would just like to be away from this place.

Weiss looks up and smiles, but says nothing in return. The synth walks over to him. But Danse’s feet feel like lead. Speaking in hushed tones, Weiss talks to the synth, before slipping something into his pack. With one hand, he tucks a loose strand of hair back behind his ear, eyes flashing back over to Danse. He smiles, wide and perfect, before concluding his discussion with the synth. 

“Are you ready, Danse?” Weiss asks, coming to hold both his hands in his own. He runs his thumbs over Danse’s knuckles. “We should probably head back to the Prydwen, to check in.”

This is not something Danse expected. But it does not bother him. If anything, Weiss’ desire to return to the ship, however brief, is a good sign. Perhaps he has come around to the idea of allowing the Brotherhood to help him. They can help each other.


	19. I Could Have Sworn This Chapter Had a Title

The plans are going straight to Sturges. Val will see to that. Weiss trusts him absolutely, because he's known the man in two lifetimes. Once as flesh and bone, utterly opposed to Weiss’ mere existence. But that's just fine, because maybe Valentine was right about Weiss. 

This time, he knows Val as metal and electricity, he's Weiss’ friend. Perhaps his dearest, because they can reminisce about pre-packaged food and fresh cigarettes. Banalities of a life that seems so far away now. But other than those creature-comforts, they remember how terrible it was too. They've got only a teacup worth of nostalgia left. Not like the buckets of it running through the veins of some people who never saw the past in the first place.

They have to wait for a Bird to come get them from Cambridge station. One should be through in the morning.

Danse immediately shifts his personality, standing up straighter, even though they shed their armor at the door. There isn't enough space inside the station, and the Brotherhood have the building well secured now. Danse is at ease, but also in control. He asks the Scribe who opens the door to brief him on what has happened in the last week. The Scribe basks in his presence, starting to rattle off the most mundane of activities, in which each Knight and Scribe and Aspirant has been participating.

Weiss leaves them be. Little things, like who's taking a shit where, won’t help him all that much. But Haylen has a desk in the corner, next to the one window that still has a glass pane, rather than having been long boarded up. 

Her desk is littered with electronics, circuit boards, terminal components, but medical supplies too. Syringes, chems, and a strange looking rifle. There seems to be some method to her organization, because she can reach out for her screwdriver or a tube of glue, without looking up.

“Mind some company?” Weiss asks, sitting on the empty desk next to Haylen’s. 

She looks up, smiling brightly. “Of course.” 

He'd pegged her as a social person right away, good at reading others, even if occasionally blinded by her own desires. When she told him of her early affections for Rhys, now long past, Weiss understood how well she is able to negotiate the moods of others. Maybe that is why Danse finds her so perplexing.

“What are you working on?” Weiss settles on the desk, crossing his legs. He accidentally bangs his knee into the wall, drawing back sharply to rub the spot. He rests his elbows on his legs, then his head in his hands, hunching forward.

Haylen nods towards the strange rifle, “One of the patrols picked it up when scouring a medical facility. The Scribe with them couldn't make heads or tails of it. I'm trying to work out the properties, if it could be useful to us.”

“Can I touch it?” Weiss asks, curious now. 

“Sure, it's not fragile.” Haylen’s hands are busy pulling apart the circuit board. 

Reaching over to the other desk, Weiss picks up the rifle. It is weird. The long copper barrel attaches to a gas canister. Everything from the grip to the muzzle looks homemade, pieced together from Wasteland garbage. Not the kind of thing the Brotherhood is usually interested in. From the talk he's heard, pre-War, high tech weapons are more their speed.

“This looks the same size as…”

“You can load syringes into it,” Haylen finishes his thought. “Yes, it appears to fire standard syringes at targets. Weird, right? But potentially useful, being able to fire chem mixtures at long range. The gas appears to act as the propellant.”

“And the Brotherhood is interested in this sort of stuff?”

“Well,” Haylen smiles, “I'm interested in it. I'm grateful the Field Scribe thought to bring it back.” She gestures to the syringes and chems laid out on her desk. “I'm small batch mixing at my desk, waiting for the chem station to be built here at Cambridge.”

“Is there a hold up? Seems fairly important that you can mix on site?”

Haylen shrugs her shoulders before wiping off her hands on a towel laid across her lap.

“Our logistics situation in the Commonwealth isn't the best at the moment. I'm sure they've got the materials to build the station over at the Airport. There's been a real effort to scrap the place down, from what I've heard.”

Weiss nods, encouraging her to keep talking.

“But getting those materials to Cambridge? I've requested them, but I think the Proctors find a chemstation here to be less-than mission critical.” She sighs, “They may be right. It's a bit of a vanity project for me. An opportunity to show what I'm capable of in terms of synthesis.”

Turning that information over in his head, Weiss wonders what is “mission critical” for the Brotherhood. Not him and not Haylen. But they may have the material capabilities to help them both. Building the teleporter might be higher priority than a chemstation at an outpost. But being able to make stims does seem important enough to justify the expense. 

But they do have materials, just not all in the right places. So maybe, maybe they can be useful, if he can get what he needs out of their stores. But he doesn't have a good way to transport anything bulky. And he's already got Piper and MacCready out looking for smaller items that could be useful.

“Hey,” Haylen suggests. “Would you want to come with me to try this out? I’ve got a couple of syringes ready, but it's all theoretical at the moment.”

Weiss looks around the room, Danse is nowhere to be seen. Probably still getting fawned over by lower ranking members. That's fine though. Talking with Haylen is illuminating. She's more open and approachable than most. Besides, what's the worst that could happen shooting a bunch of feral ghouls full of home-brew drugs?

\--

Weiss doesn't put on his power armor, but he does grab a chest piece that is almost long enough to cover his torso while he waits for Haylen to get ready. When she comes back downstairs, she's changed out of her robes and back into the field uniform Weiss is used to seeing her in.

She rests the rifle against her shoulder. At her hip is a pack for the ammunition.

“Let's go run some experiments,” she smiles.

Most of the surrounding area has already been cleared, Brotherhood patrols keeping diligent in eliminating threats. But their sphere of influence is still relatively small. They're burning daylight and Haylen wants to be back tonight, so she suggests that they try the tunnels.

Weiss holds the door to the subway station open for Haylen, realizing too late that it's probably more appropriate for him to lead. He is the Knight here, after all. The dangers of chivalry. But the lobby of the station is empty too.

He takes up a position in front of Haylen, keeping his pistol drawn, in case something surprises them. They're here to try out the rifle, but that's not going to be an option if a ghoul jumps out of a closet or something.

They clear the turnstiles, heading down to the tracks. Haylen stays close enough that Weiss can hear her breathe. When they get to the foot of the stairs, they stop.

He'd dosed before leaving the station, so his vision is still sharp enough. They stay close to the wall, scanning the tracks for sleeping ghouls.

“There,” Haylen points at a heap of scraps. When Weiss takes a second look at it, he can see she’s right. There's at least one feral in the pile of garbage. Either dead or sleeping. Haylen crouches down to aim. Weiss steps behind her, crouching too. He's got a great idea.

He whispers against her ear, “Don't move, after you shoot.”

When she pulls the trigger, firing off the syringe, Weiss activates the Stealth Boy on his wrist. He throws his arms over her shoulders quickly, and the stealth field hides her too. He smirks. He wasn't sure it would work, that he could be quick enough to trick the Stealth Boy into enveloping them both.

The rifle is quiet though. But with the silence of the tunnel, the noise it does make echoes. Weiss can hear the needle hit the ghoul, sticking into its hard hide. The ghoul starts awake, throwing mounds of wet, rotting cardboard and cloth off of its thin, horrific frame. All cracking skin and bone, the ferals never look quite like the ghouls he's met that actually talk and live and dream. It's hard, still, to believe Hancock or Daisy or Wiesman could be like this if their luck were different. Hell, anyone, not just those already recognized as ghouls, could end up like this.

The ghoul shrieks, clawing at its own chest. It starts forward, other ghouls rising with the commotion. Weiss and Haylen stay very still, watching it in its fury. It appears mindless, but all ferals are. So Weiss isn't sure that the syringe did anything, other than waking it up.

But when three more ferals advance, withering their way out of dilapidated rail cars, Weiss sees the difference the chems have made. Ferals never attack each other, recognizing flesh as flesh, maybe. But the one Haylen shot turns on its comrades, clawing and scratching at the face of the first to come within striking range. With the same ferociousness it would use against a human, it wrecks the first feral in its path, shreds it, still wailing.

The next two ferals, perhaps knowing that this one has turned against them, tackle the affected ghoul to the ground, ripping limbs from sockets, peeling flesh from bone. The body cracks apart, in ruins. Remnants of the dead floating in the inch of water that has flooded this part of the tunnel.

Once they are done, the remaining ferals heave as if exhausted, falling into a heap on top the two murdered ones. Bloodstains across their threadbare clothing, worn from hundreds of years of unending exposure.

Haylen swallows thickly. Her shoulders under Weiss’ hands are tense. 

The ghouls do not attack each other. And Weiss does not wish to disturb their slumber. They've earned their rest. The Stealth Boy runs out, leaving he and Haylen visible, still crouched close to the ground.

“Do you want to try again?” Weiss asks Haylen. He does have another Stealth Boy in his pack. Or they can easily handle the two ghouls who remain, if they turn on them.

Haylen shakes her head, nodding towards the stairs. Weiss leaves first, careful to keep his footfall quiet. They wait until they're upstairs before saying anything else.

“Is it what you were expecting?” Weiss asks before lighting his cigarette.

Haylen breaks into a smile, clearly pleased with her progress. “I'd like to see how the rounds work on an opponent who is still in their right mind, but yeah. I think I've made progress. Maybe enough to get that station installed. If I can prove the project is worthwhile, they’ll have to give me the resources. Right?”

Weiss doesn't know one way or another how that sort of thing works with the Brotherhood. But he nods, “We’re heading back to the Prydwen in the morning. Who would I have to talk to in order to get the materials you need?”

The sun is well set. By now, there should be evening rations back at the station. Despite the darkness, they're fairly safe here, in the zone the Brotherhood tightly controls. So they don't spare attention to keeping watch as they walk back.

“Hm, if you could talk to the Quartermaster? He could provision the materials. Proctor Ingram could too. I can build the station myself. I only need the salvage.”

Weiss nods, promising, “I'll ask.” Gives him good reason to poke around in the Brotherhood’s supply chain.

They're nearly back to the station when Haylen speaks up again. “It's good, what you're doing. For the Commonwealth, of course. But also for Paladin Danse.”

Smiling, Weiss almost finds it funny, the way his heart skips. Like Haylen is Danse’s old man or something, giving approval for him to court her son. And he likes it. Fuck, Nate’s family had been less than enthused when they finally decided to get married. Even though Weiss was successful, educated, all those things that screamed respectability. Maybe they always thought their precious Nate would come to his senses, throw off the capricious boyfriend he'd spent ten unsteady years with.

But this isn't quite the same, because really, Haylen’s voice is concerned and relieved in equal measure. “Danse...could use someone who understands him. He cares, very deeply, I think. But doesn't know how to show it. So you'll be patient with him, right?”

“Of course,” and Weiss is quite sincere on this matter. “I care very much about him. He's...amazing.” Weiss admits. “He's very strong, and kind, and doesn't realize how great he is.”

“Yeah,” Haylen chews at her lip. “He is.” Her posture straightens a bit. “And if you dare hurt him. I'll fucking murder you.”

Weiss laughs, “I wouldn't expect anything less from his friends.”

“Paladin Danse isn't much for friends. But I'm glad he has you.”

When they get back, most everyone is done with dinner, but there are portions enough for both of them. Looks like dog meat. Weiss hasn't yet gotten used to the idea of eating dog. Makes his stomach churn thinking about it. In a desperate situation, yeah, he'd eat it. But they're not at that point yet. He can still choose to be picky about what he puts in his mouth. The corn is fine though, so he eats that.

Danse descends the stairs, saying that he's happy to see them both back. Not that he was worried. They're both capable soldiers. Haylen smiles at Danse, assuring him that there was minimal risk in their outing.

Waiting until they're finished eating, only then Danse pulls Weiss aside. They walk to the collapsed offices just off the bullpen, where there are still mattresses laid out. But it looks like the sleeping quarters have been moved to another section of the building, as no one occupies the beds.

“What can I help you with?” Weiss smiles, his hands in his pockets.

Danse steps forward, taking Weiss’ face in his hands and kissing his lips lightly. Weiss presses back, gentle, gentle. Doesn't want to scare Danse away. His boldness is greatly appreciated, stirring in Weiss’ abdomen. But it's lighter than lust, a sort of quiet contentment.

“What did I do to deserve that?” Weiss asks when Danse draws away, 

“I just,” Danse shakes his head.

“I like it,” Weiss corrects, going from teasing to direct. “You should do it again.”

And Danse does. But their affection doesn't progress, halted a only fraction deeper than chaste, coming up against the wall of Danse’s shyness, even now. Though they've already seen each other naked and utterly wrecked. Danse has been subservient at Weiss’ feet, but is hesitant to kiss him. So strange. And sort of beautiful. Weiss doesn't push for more.

They sleep separately, because the beds are too close together. And Weiss promised to obey in front of Danse’ brothers and sisters. So he curls up in the cot downstairs when Danse returns to the second floor to sleep. Weiss doesn't mind the duplicity, as long as it means Danse will sometimes kiss him first.

\--

Weiss wakes a bit before dawn, he takes a dose. There are plenty left in the tin to see him through this trip to the Prydwen, but he also knows he can ask for more abroad. He knows well enough from the Old World how soldiers operate. He's only ever surprised by Danse’s ignorance on such matters. The way the corners of his mouth turn down when Weiss takes the mentats in front of him. So now he tries to be more subtle. 

But soldiers are soldiers are soldiers. And he remembers the first day Nate came home from leave with three buffout in his pack. He’d taken one and spent the rest of the night, into the early morning, trying to break Weiss’ fucking back. At the office the next day, Weiss worked on his deposition pacing the floor, too uncomfortable to sit at his desk.

Once he’s ready, he meets Danse up on the roof. The Vertibird is here to take them up to the ship. Weiss leaves his shit armor at the station, tossing off the excuse that he’ll use the modified suit above the Prydwen if they see combat.


	20. Tell the Truth, At Least, Just this Once

There is a Squire waiting to greet them as they land on the Prydwen. A girl of about fifteen, with dark hair tied up high, strung in tight curls that bloom around the back of her head. Drexel, Danse recalls, this is Squire Drexel. 

She asks Danse to follow her, if he can. The Elder wishes to see him immediately. Weiss smiles back at him, his hands shoved into his back pockets. “I think I’ll be safe on my own,” he assures. Danse has no doubts that Weiss can handle himself aboard the Prydwen, though something else makes Danse want to stay close. 

“Of course. We will see each other again this evening,” Danse shocks himself at how suggestive his comment is. He did not mean it in such terms, only, that they were likely to see each other at dinner, if not before. The suggestion that they would be sleeping together on the ship is not his intention.

Weiss walks down the length of the flight deck without him, stopping off to speak to one of the Scribes working on the Vertibird three docks over. Squire Drexel keeps her posture quite straight, waiting for Danse’s attention to return.

She doesn’t need to escort him to the Elder, but Danse assumes she is only trying to be diligent in her assignment, and does not ask her to leave. Her head bounces from side to side as she walks, leading the way by half a step.

Danse never liked the idea of Squires being assigned to the Prydwen. When he and the Elder discussed how to provision the ship for the Commonwealth, Danse advised strongly against the use of Squires. While their mission was not strictly a combat one, direct confrontation with the Institute was certain to necessitate the use of violence, eventually. While the Prydwen may be the most technologically advanced ship the Wasteland has seen in 200 years, it is still a massive, lumbering target. Furthermore, Elder Maxson has always advocated deployment of Squires in field missions. Bringing children to the Commonwealth will mean using them on the ground. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. 

But, perhaps, Elder Maxson is better versed on the subject of Squires and their education than Danse is. Danse only joined as an adult, already well into his 20s. Maxson, well, Maxson has Steel in his blood. He served as a boy, though he rarely speaks of the experience.

Only, Danse half-remembers being small and scared. The rest he can’t remember, and he can only assume it is because he wishes not to. While Drexel is nearly old enough now to become a full member of the Brotherhood in her own right, he only hopes her childhood was a happy one. And that the younger boys and girls aboard the ship live to be her age, at least.

She raps sharply at the door, waiting for the Elder to call back before swinging it open, letting Danse step inside. She does not follow, only shutting the door behind Danse.

The Elder looks out across the Sea, light from the expanse of windows before him bleaching his skin pale, making his hair look darker in comparison. He keeps his hands crossed behind his back as he turns to greet Danse. His mouth still set in a thin line. 

“Paladin. Good. I’ve wanted to speak to you.”

Danse keeps his hands behind his back as well, “Elder?”

“I’ve heard some disturbing reports from our scouting parties. They say you entered the Glowing Sea with Knight Weiss.”

“Yes, sir.” Asked directly like this, Danse will not lie. He cannot lie. It is his duty to provide the necessary information to his Elder, as to aid the Brotherhood’s operations in the Commonwealth. 

“You failed to tell me this the last time you were aboard the Prydwen.”

Danse hedges, “I did not deem it necessary information at the time.” Close enough to the truth.

When he responds, Maxson wrinkles between his eyes. “And what mission were you undertaking in the CIT ruins?”

Danse does not mean to hesitate this time, though he can tell from Elder Maxson’s reaction that he does. The young man looks...betrayed. And it snaps a twig inside Danse’s chest, cutting into his rib. Lying, avoiding veracity, does not come easily to Danse. “We were following a lead in order to breach the Institute.”

“And what did you find?” Danse does not miss how the corners of Maxson’s lips remain downturned.

“Knight Weiss recovered information. Regarding how the synths must use teleportation to travel between the Institute and the Wasteland. I only know he was,” Danse chooses his words carefully, “satisfied with what he found in the Glowing Sea. He required a chip from an Institute Courser in order to continue with the project.”

Maxson turns away from Danse, looking out the window again. Stepping forward, Danse stands next to him, keeping his eyes on the sea. This is easier, than facing one another, where their intentions may be more easily read. “Weiss is building a teleporter?”

“Yes,” the twig shifts in Danse’s chest.

“Why did you not tell me?” There is hurt in Maxson’s voice. It is genuine.

“There was no opportunity.” It’s an almost-lie.

Maxson nods, bringing his hands forward, he pulls at one nail. He used to bite them, when he was younger. That wasn’t so long ago. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“No, sir.”

\--

Danse does not see Weiss for the rest of the day, though he looks for him at every opportunity. The ship is large, yes, but not impossibly so. And perhaps he was deployed on another mission, but normally, he is sure to tell Danse before he departs. Worrisome, that Danse cannot find him aboard.

When Weiss does arrive at dinner, he’s smiling. A Scribe of about thirty is at his side, smiling as well, standing incredibly close at Weiss’ side. 

“Danse!” Weiss redirects his path to reach him. “You know Scribe Gopal, right?” 

Technically, Danse should know everyone aboard the Prydwen. He has most likely met them in one capacity or another, before he departed the Capital. There are a few outliers, those who joined in the months after he was deployed to the Commonwealth. But while Danse knows faces, he often cannot place names. Particularly among the Scribes, if they have not been placed under his direct field command in the past.

“Of course,” he forces a smile.

Weiss takes a seat across from Danse, leaving room for Gopal to slide in next to him. “Gopal was telling me about some of the work Head Scribe Neirah has scheduled. I think we can be of a lot of help. Since we end up killing a number of mutated creatures, inevitably.” 

“Yes,” Gopal smiles at Weiss. “You should talk to her directly about obtaining the samples, but it would be invaluable to our projects. We may be able to devise something that may be of use to you in the field.”

“What do you think, Danse?” Weiss swirls together the beans and mash on his plate until they’re combined into a single, sticky paste. 

“Yes, of course. If it will be helpful.”

Weiss smiles at him before turning back to Gopal, “We’ll talk to the Head Scribe in the morning, then.”

After they eat, Danse half expects Weiss to follow the Scribe to bed. He doesn’t know what he’s envisioning, only officers have private quarters. But with Weiss, what he knows of Weiss, Danse isn’t certain that the lack of privacy would be a concern, if he really wanted to bed the Scribe. But Weiss politely tells Gopal he is not yet tired. Besides, he has tomorrow to discuss with Paladin Danse. They won’t be staying aboard the Prydwen for long. 

Once inside Danse’s quarters, Vishnu kisses him softly, hands on either side of his face, thumbs brushing against the stark line where his facial hair begins. “Tell me, how far we can go? I don’t want to start something you don’t want to finish.”

Danse swallows thickly, trying to reconcile what he wants with what he knows will foam over into embarrassment. The walls to the Prydwen are not thick, and he shares a wall with Maxson. “I can be quiet.”

Vishnu smiles, trailing his fingers over Danse’s chest until he catches digits in the loop of a buckle. “Do you want me to suck you?” One by one he sticks his fingers into Danse’s mouth. Danse parts his teeth to let them in, licking his tongue against them. Though Vishnu has been the one to offer his mouth, Danse can’t help but suck down on the intrusion of Vishnu’s long fingers. True to his word, he keeps quiet, though he feels the stir of arousal in his chest.

Dragging his fingers back out, Vishnu leaves only the barest tips pressed against the swell of Danse’s lips before smearing the remains of saliva against them in long strokes. 

“You want to come,” Vishnu’s voice is almost breathless, but sort of filled with wonder too. Danse wonders why. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Danse admits, letting his eyes flutter closed. 

Leaving Danse’s mouth behind, Vishnu starts on the zipper of Danse’s uniform, pulling it down and letting the weight of it peel away to reveal Danse’s chest. Once the tab hits below Danse’s navel, Vishnu slips his hands inside, pushing the nylon off of Danse’s hips, down his thighs, until the uniform pools on the floor at his feet. He unties Danse’s bootlaces for him, tapping each shin so he’ll lift his foot. 

He’s bare and the Prydwen is cool, today. Must be that section of the cycle. Vishnu kneels before him, still fully dressed, hand reaching up to stroke Danse’s cock. What little softness was left shudders away, growing perfectly hard under Vishnu’s frustrations.

Standing like this is terribly vulnerable. Being seen in the harsh light of his room. Danse wishes he could switch the lights back off. But they are on a timer. There are still two hours left before they dim. Vishnu smiles, running his free hand up and down the inside of Danse’s thigh, before coming to cup his balls in his palm. “While this is hot as fuck, it’s not great on my knees,” tipping his head forward, Vishnu swipes his tongue, long and lewd, against the head of Danse’s cock, peeking through the grip Vishnu keeps. “Get on the bed. Lay on your back.”

“Yes, Sir,” Danse responds, moving only after Vishnu has dropped both his hands. He moves to the bed, laying down flat, his arms at his sides. There’s a soft crack from the floor as Vishnu stands. His knee.

Shaking off the twinge of pain, Vishnu crawls into bed. He grabs Danse at the back of his knees, pulling them up and spreading his thighs. Taking a moment, Vishnu rolls his shirt sleeves to the elbow, tucking them in so they won’t fall down.

He doesn’t waste time after that, bending almost in half, with his legs tucked under him, to take Danse’s cock down his throat. One hand he uses to keep Danse’s cock in place as he sucks, the other curls under to fondle his balls. It’s all brutally efficient, and shockingly wonderful. The heat and moisture around Danse’s erection combined with the unrelenting suction rushes him quickly to the edge of breaking. Vishnu rumbles, low in his throat before tugging gently again with his hands.

Danse covers his face with his hands as he comes, almost embarrassed with how easily it overwhelms him. Is it always like this? So hot and bright and all at once? Vishnu seems affected when he comes, but not like this. Not the crashing back to earth, inhabiting every fiber, like Danse feels. 

He can still feel Vishnu swallowing around him, until Danse finally starts going soft. Vishnu rocks back. Danse doesn’t realize he’s still covering his face until Vishnu’s hands are around his wrists, soft sounds of, “Okay, you’re okay.”

Still clothed, Vishnu scoots up next to Danse, holding him close. The half-sleeves of his dress shirt are warm against Danse’s bare side. Danse should...he should do something in return, but right now he can focus on little else but breathing. 

He starts to reach towards Vishnu’s slacks, brushing his fingers over his groin, but finding him half soft. Vishnu pushes his hand away. “Don’t worry. I’m alright.”

“But you haven’t,” Danse never feels as if he’s done enough.

Vishnu laughs a little, before pressing a kiss to Danse’s lips. “It’s only been like, twenty some hours since we last had sex. I’m good. I’m fine. I’m a little surprised I guess,” his smile is warm and bright. “You can’t be that much younger than me. Or am I robbing the cradle here and I’m just blinded by how good you look?”

“What?’ Danse asks, not quite understanding.

“Is that not a phrase you have anymore? Weird.” He taps his fingers just below Danse’s ribs. “How old are you?”

The question shouldn’t shock Danse anymore. He’s had a suitable answer for years now. But he decides to explain more fully. “I didn’t know. But when I joined the Brotherhood, they needed a date of birth to create a record for me. So, I chose July 4th.”

Vishnu laughs.

“What?”

“Before the War, that was a holiday. Independence Day, you know, when the United States declared themselves free from the tyranny of the British. Did you know that when you picked it?”

Danse tilts his head against the pillow. “No, I didn’t. But I only know a little about the British. There was a museum in Rivet City, but...I was less interested in the history than other topics.”

Vishnu frowns slightly, “No, I guess you wouldn’t know much. It’s not important now. But in any case, did you have to pick a year?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I selected 2255. It would have made me twenty-four when I joined. Which I estimated to be roughly correct.”

“Right, right. So you’ve been with the Brotherhood eight years or so. Give or take. And joined in your twenties. So, you’re what, about thirty-two now?”

“That sounds right.”

“I figured as much, I mean...that we were close in age, only.” He laughs again, “I’m having trouble keeping up with you.”

“What?”

“Mm,” Vishnu pauses, “Every time we’re close, you start getting...aroused. And I want to make sure you’re satisfied, you know, happy. But I can’t fuck every day like that. Maybe when I was eighteen. But not now. So, just don’t worry if I don’t get off. If you can, though, I want to give it to you.”

“Am I, unusual?” The thought has crossed Danse’s mind before. But, honestly, in the other direction. That he was somehow odd for not wishing more strongly to engage in sex. Even if he did often feel a void, a desire for affection. And he masturbates at what appears to be a normal frequency.

“Nah, I mean, everyone is different. And I don’t mind. I like touching you, sucking you. I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” Danse realizes he is telling the truth. He is happy, in this moment. But the anxiety is already starting to build. Wondering if Vishnu could stay here the night? What would happen if others aboard the ship knew?

“I guess I should go. If I stay here, I’ll only fall asleep.” Vishnu starts to push himself up off the bed. Some of his hair falls loose into his face. He pushes it back behind his ear. 

“Stay,” Danse realizes the first time he opens his mouth, not enough of the sound makes it back out. “Stay.”

Vishnu stops, before his hands go to the buttons of his shirt instead. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	21. Tragic Really, How Far You've Come and With Such Great Success

By the time Weiss and Danse leave the Prydwen, they’ve been assigned half a dozen additional tasks that Weiss would’ve never taken on voluntarily. They’re looking for technical documents, blood samples, and some fucking components for fucking Liberty Prime. Fuck.

The hulking metal carcass the Brotherhood have sitting out at the airport? The one Proctor Ingram is slaving over, trying to find the right bits and bobs to make it tick? Weiss knows that robot. Sort of. 

He remembers Nate speaking of it, shaking his head. Maybe Nate wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. But plans of bringing it online were halted; this was before he went to Alaska, for the fifth time. That brief interval between deployments in ‘72, when Weiss asked Nate, finally, finally, to marry him.

Liberty Prime could win them the war, Nate had said. But they never finished it. Now it stands as a monster in a future it nonetheless helped birth. Weiss can’t bear to look at it longer than he must. He won’t provide the Brotherhood with a single screw to help put it back together.

Maybe, had the military finished Liberty Prime 200 years ago, things could have been different. But Weiss is still not finishing it now. He puts on a brave face, though. Having told Ingram he’ll make a priority of finding what she needs to complete the repairs.

A Bird is scheduled to drop them near Sanctuary. Weiss tells the pilot to leave enough space, they can walk the rest of the way. He wears the T-60, the set that fits his long limbs. The T-45 set is still back at Cambridge, and he doesn’t want to waste any time. They’ve wasted enough time.

At least now he knows where the Brotherhood’s stores are located, concerning basic components they may need for this teleporter. Steel, fiberglass, copper, glass, a whole host of scrap. Sure, the Brotherhood have it at the airport. Supplies along with teams of fresh-faced kids under the direction of seasoned officers scrapping everything in sight. But they’re lacking more sophisticated components for their own projects, still asking him and Danse to help bring materials back. 

Danse is quiet on the ride; Weiss doesn’t mind. He wants to try and hold Danse’s hand, but thinks better of it. At least the silence is comfortable.

The pilot drops them on the other side of the river. Weiss thanks her profusely as he climbs out of the bay. She reiterates that she is only doing her job. Danse follows after him, swinging both their packs over one shoulder. Weiss tries to take his own, but Danse only says it’s no trouble.

When they reach the settlement, Weiss is eager to take the armor off, hooking it into the station Sturges has set up in the garage. Preston comes to greet them, giving a concise report of his activities with the Minutemen, as well as letting him know MacCready and Val have been through, but departed the night before on another task. Weiss isn’t particularly concerned. If there is a pressing matter, he cannot begrudge them that.

“Did Val talk to you about the teleporter?” he asks.

“Did. Sturges tried to make sense of those plans. And the Courser data we picked up.” Preston crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the garage wall. There’s a cigarette stuck in the brim of his hat. “He doesn’t have the processing power here to make heads or tails out of it. I don’t doubt he can build it. But we’re going to need an assist on sorting through all those files.”

Weiss nods, trying to formulate a plan. Taking out his cigarette pack, he offers one to Preston first, before pulling his own. “So, you know the Commonwealth better than I do,” he lights his cigarette. “Any ideas?”

Preston narrows his eyes slightly, looking down at his feet, then at Danse, then back at his feet before shaking his head and dragging from his cigarette. “Nick might though. Didn’t sound like they would be gone too long.”

“Fair enough,” Weiss knows well enough that whatever Preston is thinking, they can’t have this conversation in front of Danse. In all truth, it’s probably fine to talk. He trusts Danse not to rat them out. But if Preston is uncomfortable, for whatever reason, Weiss isn’t going to push it.

\--

Preston asks half a dozen times if it will be a problem if he departs for the Castle before Val and MacCready return. Weiss assures him that it’s no trouble at all. They’ve got to keep working the Commonwealth from all angles, if they are going to have any chance of success; if they’re going to make the world a better place.

It’s not even five in the morning yet. Preston and Weiss watch the sun come up together just outside the new barracks the settlers have been working on. Part of the roof is still missing, but they’ve got four walls now. And a number of beds. Danse is still asleep inside, as is Piper, most of the rest of the community. Marcy Long woke up when they did, muttering about wanting to tend the crops. Using her hands keeps her brain busy.

“I shouldn’t be gone more than a week,” Preston assures.

Weiss smiles, “Take as long as you need. I know it’s important. You wouldn’t have to go if it wasn’t. I only regret that I can’t go with you.” He wishes he could be more involved in helping the Minutemen. At each settlement and town he tries to set up adequate supply lines, brokering deals to get people and objects in motion. But he’s not much use in combat. And he’s got obligations elsewhere. 

“I know,” Preston says. “We do appreciate everything you’re able to do. I appreciate it.” Preston finishes off his cigarette before grabbing his pack off the ground. “Nick thinks the Railroad will have the processing and skill to work out that data. He can tell you more. I’ll be back, soon.”

“Stay safe,” Weiss claps Preston on the shoulder before he goes.

\--

“So,” Piper flops on the cot next to him, her head sharing his pillow, “What are we doing?”

Weiss had been catching a nap in middle of the the crisp day while Danse works on their power armor. Had been, before Piper roused him from the dreamy state he had managed to enter into. She’s small enough just to barely curl into the single cot with him. Once she’s close, he throws his arm around her waist. 

Lifting his head up, Weiss does a quick scan of the room, making sure Danse hasn’t come back in. But the building is empty other than him and Piper. He keeps the volume of his voice low, in case they’re interrupted. 

“Val thinks maybe we need to talk to the Railroad.”

Piper’s hazel eyes go a little wide, “Go on.”

“That’s all I know. I don’t even know how to find them.”

Piper draws her lips together before speaking. “I’ve heard that you’re supposed to follow the Freedom Trail. It’s never meant much of anything to me. Couldn’t find where this trail started, though I’ve had feelers out for awhile.”

“Maybe Val knows more than we do?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Piper admits.

Her hair smells of harsh soap and sweet sweat. It’s soft as he holds onto the back of her head, keeping her close. The sheet keeps their bodies from coming into contact directly.

“I’m sorry, you know?”

“For what?” Piper asks.

Weiss sighs, “For not being a better man. For not appreciating you.”

Piper snickers, but it’s not unkind. “We’re not a great love story or anything, Vishnu. But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he pulls at her waist this time, keeping them close. “Great fun.”

They end up falling back asleep like that. Danse wakes them, pressing gently on Weiss’ shoulder when it’s time for dinner.

\--

When Val and MacCready make it back to Sanctuary, Weiss makes his moves cautiously. He wants to talk to Val, alone. Which means two things. Separating Val from MacCready and separating Danse from himself. Neither would take particularly well to finding out the Railroad are about to become involved, if Weiss reads them right. Normally, he does a decent job of appraising people. 

“Val! MacCready,” he throws his arm over Val’s shoulder, already pulling him away. “I need to borrow you for a sec. If you don’t mind?” He looks expectantly over at MacCready. “Maybe you and Danse can entertain each other for a minute. Terribly sorry about this!”

Weiss waits for MacCready to nod. Good, he understands, hopefully, that he should try and keep Danse occupied, at least a little. Out of all of Weiss’ companions, MacCready is maybe the most likely to understand where Danse is coming from. They’re both orphans, with rough childhoods, who beat the Wasteland odds. They’re shyer and tend to fade into the background just a touch, with all the other strong personalities swirling around them. They’re good at combat and value skill. And Weiss knows Danse is more likely to take to MacCready than he is to anyone else, for these reasons. He hopes they can get along. It would be good for them both.

Leading Val away from the garage, they make their way to the north-west creek. It’s cold, and the water will be cold, but Weiss always liked the stream. He didn’t know it was there, when he bought the house, but it was a pleasant surprise. Pleasant again that the water still runs.

Once they’re out of earshot, he asks, “So, about seeing to the data?”

Val nods, “Given the kind of work the Railroad does, they should have the scale of processing power we need. They rewrite the memories of Gen 3 synths. And that’s no easy task.”

“Agreed.” Weiss pulls his arm off of Val’s shoulders so that he can bend down to unlace his boots. He ends up sitting down, so he can get his socks off too. “Have any idea how to get us there?” He rolls up his pant legs to mid-calf before standing again.

“Yeah,” Val takes the time to light his cigarette. “Remember Amari? She works for them. I know where to start because of her.”

Weiss stands in the frigid water, holding his shoes in one hand, socks stuck inside. His toes feel as if they’re gonna freeze, but he sort of likes it, the way the water bubbles over his feet. Facing towards the settlement, he sees someone coming towards them. From the red-flannel, and the thickness, he’s sure it’s Danse. Fuck, he must have shook off MacCready. Danse can’t know about this. Not yet. It will only upset him.

“Then we leave tonight?”

Val nods, turning his head. He must hear Danse approaching.

\--

“So, say that I did? That I killed a Courser. What is it worth to you?” The Railroad has them boxed in, the heavy steel door having swung shut behind them. A stocky, dark skinned woman trains a spotlight on Weiss, her sizable weapon swung around her back. Weiss knows better than to risk upsetting her.

The blonde woman smokes, with all the elegance of an Old World movie star, perfectly poised as she drags, before tapping off ash into the pool of water where Weiss, Piper, and Val stand. No one moves, too risky to try anything sudden

“Follow me,” Desdemona says. The man with black hair and sunglasses called her that. ‘Dez’ as a term of affection and ‘Desdemona’ as her full name. They’re interested in the Courser chip, that’s for sure. Interested enough, or desperate enough, to allow Weiss and his companions passage. 

Weiss follows Desdemona back further into the cavern, opening up into bricked catacombs. Railroad agents bustle between overcrowded desks, not paying much attention to their new visitors. A young man in a pageboy cap tips it in acknowledgement at Desdemona before skittering off. 

“Welcome to the Railroad,” Desdemona gestures before her. “Understand, we’re taking a calculated risk here.” She’s still holding tension in her jaw, traveling down the line of her neck and pooling in her shoulders.

“I’m telling you, Dez,” Deacon shakes his head, “they’re cool. I’ve checked. I mean,” he smiles, just at the edge of sinister “Vaultie has a pet Paladin, knew well enough not to bring him.”

Weiss reacts on instinct, angry in the moment regarding the insinuation. But he can’t jeopardize their mission here. If they fail, the next option is asking the Brotherhood for help. And that’s no option at all. The fewer times he and Danse have to return to the Prydwen the better. He’s promised too much and delivered too little. The Railroad are the lesser of the two commitments here, as he has yet to make them promises. “He’s not the most open minded person, I’ll admit. But he means well,” Weiss defends Danse, best he can.

“Sure seems like you keep him on a short leash.”

Desdemona interrupts, apparently familiar with Deacon’s unruly behavior, “If we could continue on to more pressing matters? Tom,” she calls, “there’s something you should take a look at.”

Weiss turns to greet Tom, a tall man in coveralls, swinging his arms, fingers tapping against his sides as they brush by. His eyes are wide and bright, and he’s rather handsome, all things considered. His attire is odd, and his movements jerky and uneven. But he smiles as he approaches. 

“This is Tinker Tom, our resident expert in all matters technical. If anyone in the Commonwealth can make sense of that chip. It’s Tom,” Desdemona explains.

“What sort of chip?”

Weiss finishes up his cigarette as quickly as he can, snuffing it out on the ashtray at the corner of the nearest desk. He offers his now-empty hand to Tom, giving him the best smile he can manage. “Courser chip. I’m trying to build a teleporter.”

“Teleportation!” Tom smacks his hand to his forehead, “Man, man, this all makes sense now,” he laughs, “teleportation! Of course. That’s why none of my scans have ever found an entrance. Wild, just, wild.”

Weiss likes Tinker Tom immediately. While the other members of the Railroad may be suspicious, and they have a right to be, Tom’s expression is open and enthusiastic. Weiss reaches into his bag to pull out the bulky Courser chip, handing it over to Tom. “Think you can make something of it?” Weiss asks.

“I’m sure as hell going to try!” Tom beams. “Okay, okay, come with me.”

Weiss follows Tom over to his workstation, watching him hook up the chip to a number of wires hanging loosely from his terminal. Weiss hasn’t seen anything like this setup before, but he’s not exactly an expert in computing. Tom’s hands fly across the keyboard, accessing the data stored on the chip, displayed as solid blocks of text on the screen.

“Yeah!” Tom exclaims, “now we’re really getting somewhere.” 

Piper stays close, her eyes on the screen as well. Weiss had expected her to try and corner a Railroad agent or three and pump them for information, but right now, she’s engrossed in watching Tom work. 

“So we have this issue,” Tom cracks his neck. “I can sort this data for you. All of it. Will take some time to parcel. But I can get you the data for the teleporter now. But I can’t write it back to the Chip. Chip is locked down. Besides, I’d like to keep my hands on it, delve a little deeper, you know? But that means you need a storage device? Could do it on your Pipboy.”

No, Weiss doesn’t want it on his Pipboy. Having it on his Pipboy means where he goes, the data goes. And he goes too close to the Brotherhood. Flies too close to the sun, almost literally. They’d just as soon take his arm for the data. 

“Val, I could use you for a sec!” Val has been talking to Deacon this whole time.

Weiss trusts Val completely. With everything. Even if perhaps Val shouldn’t trust him in return. But this is the better option. Weiss is sure of it. Storing the data on Val will mean anyone who wants the data would have to abduct a whole person. A person with years of experience taking care of himself in the Wasteland. Years of experience taking care of himself in pre-War Boston too.

There’s a lot about Nick Valentine that Weiss knows. Maybe more than Val can remember. 

And because Weiss knows Val is a better man than him, even if there are those who wouldn’t think Val a man at all, he knows this plan will work. It’s not perfect, but it will work. He’ll have Tom upload the plans, all of the Courser data, to Nick. Create a partition or something. This way, no matter what happens to Weiss, Val will see this project through, to the very end.


	22. Crash | Pavement

Danse feels warm, warmer than he should, given the chill of winter. There is a heater in the corner of the Sanctuary barracks, but it is not nearly powerful enough to heat the whole room. His cot is in the far, opposite, corner. He volunteered to take it, leaving the warmer beds to the civilians. 

Stirring, he’s about to push the flannel blanket off, when he realizes the reason he’s warm is that there is a body against his. He blinks his eyes open. The room is dark, but Weiss is so close, it’s easy enough to make out his features. His eyes are already closed. He must have climbed into bed some time ago. 

It’s not appropriate for them to share a bed. There are settlers, asleep in their cots, only feet away. But Danse does like the presence beside him, the warm weight, even if they’re both bound to fall out of the cot if they shift too much. As it is, they’re cramped together.

Weiss’ leg starts shaking, creaking the bed just slightly. He must be waking, or caught in dream. Danse stays quiet, simply staring at Weiss’ face, trying to determine if he is still asleep or not. After a moment more, Weiss’ eyelids open, dark lashes pressing against his browbone. 

“Sorry,” his leg stills. He brings one hand to the side of Danse’s face, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

Danse tries to keep his voice low, as to not disturb the others. “It is alright. I’m glad you returned safely.” He pulls his arm out from under the covers, so he can throw it over Weiss’ waist. Their bodies shift closer together yet, until they are almost on top of one another. 

“I missed you,” Weiss skims his fingers over Danse’s cheek. He’s having trouble staying still. 

“Where were you?” Danse asks.

“You wanna go somewhere more private?” 

Danse shuts his eyes before answering, “Yes.”

He swings his legs off the side of the bed, his feet hitting the concrete floor. Jun Long had mentioned trying to salvage carpets to throw down. They do not have enough wood to spend on the floors, and it would not make much difference in comfort. Carpet will be better.

Pulling on a pair of jeans and his coat, Danse readies himself to follow Weiss, who is already fully dressed. Weiss waits while Danse laces up his boots.

They walk out together into the settlement. Once outside the door, Weiss grabs Danse’s hand, holding it as they make their way to the North line of ruined homes. The spotlights are on, but trained outward towards the Wastes. The night is quiet enough that Danse can make out the hum of the turrets as well, scanning back and forth without a target to fixate on. 

Weiss stands at the threshold of a house, waiting for Danse to enter first, but there’s no door to hold open. Danse crosses the line, stepping inside the trashed living room, Weiss at his heels. Unlike most of the other houses, this one hasn’t been scrapped. The inside hasn’t been picked over. There is an overturned, torn up couch in the center of the room, springs poking through the fluffy stuffing, stained yellow with age. The television against one wall has the glass cracked in. A massive holotape player sits under the windows that no longer have glass panes to fill them. 

Danse realizes why this home hasn’t been scrapped. There’s an ashtray on the breakfast bar, next to a coffee cup. 

This is Weiss’ home.

Was, the was Weiss’ home.

They don’t dawdle in the living room, Weiss grasping Danse’s wrist again and leading him down the hallway. There’s a smashed up bathroom on one side, a washer and dryer set on the other. Most everything has been ruined, picked over by raiders or scavengers, time and time again. At the end of the hallway there are two door frames, but no doors. Weiss doesn’t pause, pulling them both into the master bedroom.

One of the walls has long since collapsed, a pile of rubble half inside, half out. The double bedframe sits in splinters, the mattress gone. There is an intact dresser, for all that’s worth. And ceramic from a lamp strewn across the floor. He and Weiss stand together in the center of the room. Danse can still see the spotlights through the hole in the wall. 

Weiss lets go of Danse’s wrist, sitting down on the floor, against the interior wall, where it’s still solid, though the wallpaper peels away, curling in on itself. “SIt with me?” Weiss asks.

Danse gets down on the floor as well, unsure at first how he should sit. He ends up with his back against the wall as well, their sides pressed together. Weiss keeps his arms wrapped around his knees, holding them bent. He rests his chin over top of his knees at first. Silent for a long time, he then drops his head between his legs, breathing deeply before coming back up.

“It’s not important where I went,” he starts. “What’s important is that we have everything we need to start work on the teleporter now.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead.

The question fills Danse’s mouth again, pushing at the back of his teeth, running out over his lips, “Where were you?”

Weiss drops his head again. He looks smaller, younger. Though he is neither small, nor young. He is not nearly as old as he thinks, however. Not in relative terms. 

Coming back up for air, still avoiding the question, Weiss asks another one, “Why don’t you kiss me instead?” His smile is a sad one. Danse realizes that a great many of his smiles have been sad.

Leaning over, Danse kisses him, their lips moving together as Vishnu parts his. Weiss shifts his weight, coming away from the wall before swinging one of his legs to the other side of Danse’s hips. He straddles Danse’s lap, pressing his hands hard against his chest. The position makes Vishnu so much taller than he has to curve his back to keep their lips together, licking into Danse’s mouth.

At first, Danse isn’t sure what to do with his hands, leaving them on the floor at his sides. But Vihnu reaches down, grabbing Danse’s hand and guiding them, one at a time, to his hips. He breaks their kiss so he can speak. “You should touch me.”

“Where?” Danse’s head doesn’t feel right. Like he’s been spun around in circles. 

“Anywhere.” Vishnu grabs the front of his own shirt, yanking it up so it slides out from under Danse’s hands. Throwing it into the corner, Vishnu turns his attention back to Danse. “Where do you want to?” He rests his hands on Danse’s shoulders, thumbs grazing against the line of his neck on either side. 

Danse starts moving his hands, even though he really doesn’t know the destination. He doesn’t know where he wants to touch. They start at Vishnu’s hips, trailing up his sides to Vishnu’s ribs. When Vishnu breathes in, Danse sees much more of the bone than he should. Vishnu’s abdomen is still somewhat soft, lacking definition, but he manages to be too-thin at the same time. 

Taking his hands higher, Danse rubs the pads of his fingers against Vishnu’s dark nipples. In response, Vishnu arches his back, drawing their chests closer together. 

“Fuck, your hands feel so good,” Vishnu moves his hands from Danse’s neck, further down to his biceps. 

Danse’s voice comes back, no matter how quiet. “I liked yours where they were,” he admits.

Vishnu puts his hands back at Danse’s neck, but this time, instead of rubbing his thumbs, he starts wrapping his digits all the way around. The hold is loose, but Danse can feel the warmth creeping against his skin, just above where the collar of his crewneck ends. “Like this?”

Danse inhales sharply, skimming his own hands back to Vishnu’s sides, then around to his back. He wraps his arms around Vishnu’s waist, pulling him closer. He puts his lips to Vishnu’s chest before admitting, “Yes.”

“Fuck,” Vishnu groans, “Let’s get out of these clothes, yeah?”

Nodding, Danse isn’t sure where to start, not with the lapfull of Vishnu, still sliding his hands around his throat. Too much pressure and not enough at the same time. Danse is hard in his jeans but can’t find the will to move either. 

“Hold on, hold on.” Vishnu grabs the hem of Danse’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head. Danse pulls back slightly from the wall to make it easier to slide his shirt off. Once it’s gone, his hands return to Vishnu’s back. “Gimme a second, okay?” Curling particularly small, he kisses Danse’s jaw.

Vishnu climbs off, leaving Danse on the floor. Quickly, he unbuttons the front of his slacks before bending over to unlace his boots. His pants start sliding from his hips. “Shit,” Vishnu laughs. He gets the boots off, then his pants and underwear in one go. When he leans over, his chain falls away from his body, the ring hung on it catching the light. He smiles before turning away, going for one of the intact drawers. 

Unmoving, Danse waits for him to return. When he does, he has a bottle in his hand. Turning it over, he reads the back before shrugging. “Something else will kill me first. Besides, I guess all lube is expired, right?”

Danse isn’t sure if he’s supposed to answer. 

“Do you want to help me?”

“With what?” But Danse has some idea.

Vishnu smiles. Fuck. He looks perfect like this. Standing in the middle of the darkened room, without shame or concern. Even though he’s out of shape, his limbs too long, his hair out of place. Danse couldn’t stand on display with such ease. It doesn’t come naturally. 

“I haven’t gotten fucked in awhile. So help me get ready.” Vishnu drops back to the floor, climbing into Danse’s lap with his legs notched around Danse’s hips. “Give me your hand.”

Danse holds out his right palm.

Vishnu uncaps the bottle, taking Danse’s hand in his own before pouring lubricant onto it. He runs his own fingers over Danse’s spreading the substance around until his fingers are fully coated. 

“Now,” Vishnu comes up on his knees, lifting his ass off of Danse’s lap, “Reach around. Start with just one finger. Yours are thick.” Wrapping his arms around Danse’s neck and shoulders, he shifts some of his weight off of his knees and onto Danse.

Danse breathes heavily. He can do this. Vishnu has done this to him and he should be able to mimic. He draws his hand around to Vishnu’s back, dipping it low against his skin, sliding his finger against the crack of his ass, then lower, lower. Vishnu’s skin is flushed warm as he waits for Danse. 

Finding Vishnu’s entrance, he slips his index finger inside. There is less resistance than he expects. Danse realizes it is less because of Vishnu’s physicality, and more that he is practiced, he knows how to relax, how to let Danse breach him.

It’s an odd thought. At least to Danse. Though he cannot say that he thought much of this, of sex, in its concrete form, before Vishnu, all the sensations and desires since then have been of his own submission. Of giving himself over. Following commands to the letter. He has assumed, perhaps wrongly, that Vishnu is in all ways his mirror, his opposite. That Vishnu thinks only of wielding control. And, yes, that includes that he would not like being fucked. Danse simply hasn’t considered it.

“Another, please,” Vishnu looks up at the ceiling for a moment, exposing the line of his throat before bringing his eyes to Danse’s again. “And then, ah,” he gasps faintly as Danse works his second finger in. “Scissor them a little, open me up for your cock. Fuck,” he laughs after the curse.

Danse stays quiet as he works, focused on his task. He wants to be good at this. But in a roundabout way. He wants to be good at pleasing Vishnu, if this is a thing he desires. 

“Okay,” Vishnu sighs, “okay. Now let’s get that beautiful cock of yours out.” Staying up on his knees, Vishnu pulls at the front of Danse’s jeans, opening them at the front and pulling out Danse’s erection. He’s been hard this whole time, despite the strangeness curled through his marrow. Vishnu strokes him with his lubed hand, adding more when he finds it wanting. “Are you ready?” He asks.

It seems an odd question. Odd, odd. All of this is odd. Somehow stranger than all the times they’ve been intimate before. Danse doesn’t know why. 

“Yes.”

Vishnu cants his hips slightly, sinking down on Danse’s erection He does not hesitate, taking it to the base more fluidly than Danse expects. And...fuck. He’s hot and tight and the sensation is overwhelming at first. Electric shocks sputtering through Danse’s chest, on the way down to his cock. Vishnu smiles back, like he knows something Danse does not. 

Vishnu’s hands leave Danse’s shoulders, his arms drawing back ever so slightly. There are those thumbs against Danse’s neck again, and long fingers brushing against his nape. “Do you want?”

“Yes.”

As Vishnu lifts his hips, his fingers close around Danse’s throat, thumbs pressed just below his adam’s apple. His hands hold firm as he starts to ride, bringing his hips back down harshly, before dragging up again. 

Danse hits the back of his head against the wall, forcing it to shudder. A noise he doesn’t mean croaks from his mouth and Vishnu loosens his grip for a moment, letting Danse suck down air in a short burst. Then his fingers close again. 

Keeping his own hands on Vishnu’s hips, he doesn’t so much direct as try and stay grounded, but as Vishnu clamps around him, tightening as he pulls off, stealing his breath before gifting it back, Danse’s hips start pulling off the floor, fucking back into the waiting heat of Vishnu’s body.

Vishnu’s hands loosen again, and this time his lips and teeth crack into Danse’s, kissing him flutteringly, fiercely, dragging them both away from the earth. 

His hands loosen thumbs smoothing over Danse’s Adam’s apple. “Touch me.” He slams back down. Oh, fuck, they’re so loud. Danse didn’t realize. Not with the friction of their bodies against each other. 

“Where?”

“You want to make me beg?”

“Oh,” Danse realizes, taking one hand from Vishnu’s hip and wrapping it around his cock instead. 

Vishnu starts moving again, taking Danse’s breath as he does. Danse starts losing focus, but then snaps back when he realizes he has to keep moving his hand. But the lack of oxygen is so sublime, giving over, walking the tightrope, the earth an expanse below him. But better still is the submission, ceding control, being contained. 

When Vishnu comes, he cries, his hands falling away. Danse’s hand is sticky with Vishnu’s cum, dribbling hot over his fingers. It’s all over his chest too, caught in the hair. Vishnu tightens around him, over and over and over until Danse realizes they’ve changed position. Vishnu’s back has hit the floor, Danse looming over top of him, pistoning his hips while Vishnu stays still, his legs wrapped around Danse’s hips, keeping him from drawing back too far.

Danse spends into him, hands pinned on either side of Vishnu’s head. He’s breathing heavy and Vishnu is smiling, running his fingers down the center of Danse’s chest, catching against the sticky cum. 

“You’re beautiful,” Vishnu says. “I love you.”

The words stick. Danse means to say them, though. 

“I need to get up,” Vishnu laughs, “but I’m not sure I can. Shit. That was, shit. Fucking incredible.”

Danse realizes he’s still hovering over Vishnu. He moves back, pulling their bodies apart. His cock is still slick with lube and cum. It looks obscene, softening against his thigh.

Vishnu pushes up off the ground until he’s seated. He winces slightly, but doesn’t let his mask drop. “I wish we had a bed here,” he looks back behind him at the wreckage. 

“Where did you go?” Danse means to say, ‘I love you too.’

His mouth falling open, Weiss finally admits. “The Railroad. They’re going to help us build the teleporter.”

There’s no suitable response for Danse to render. He can’t...make sense of this. He can’t. He can’t make sense, the pieces don’t fit.

\--

Tinker Tom comes to Sanctuary. His mind is addled, clearly. But he’s tall and smiles a great deal. He smiles a great deal at Weiss and Weiss smiles back, always. 

Danse does not like to leave Weiss’ side. Not at Sanctuary, where the others are always suspicious of him. They should be suspicious of Tinker Tom, he is the radical in their midst. With his long fingers and bitten nails. But everyone likes him. They smile and call him clever.

While they work on the teleporter, Danse sits on the concrete floor of the garage, his boots sticking into the dirt. He watches, day by day as they build. Everyone in the settlement has a task to complete. Everyone but him.

Sometimes Weiss sits with him, at lunch or between tasks. They split half a sandwich, made with baked bread and molerat jerky. Danse likes the bread best. It seems a miracle, that they’ve grown wheat from dirt. 

“It won’t be much longer yet,” Weiss stares at the metal spider, its long, solid legs piercing into the ground in the center of the settlement. The glass dome intended to be installed over top, leans against the frame. 

“I want to go with you,” Danse says.

Weiss shakes his head. “No one comes with me.” He lights his cigarette.

“I think that would be unwise. You don’t know what kind of resistance-”

“No one comes with me,” he puts his cigarette out against the garage floor. Standing, Weiss sticks his hands his back pockets before walking away.

\--

It takes three weeks to build the teleporter. 

Frequently, when behind the barracks, or by the river, or over the bridge while hunting, Weiss kisses him. Says he loves him. Always. He promises to come back.

Danse doesn’t believe him for a moment.

But he doesn’t blame Weiss, either. He blames himself, for not being good enough. For being unable to convince Weiss that the Brotherhood has, has always had, Weiss’ best interests in mind.

But saying that would have made Danse the liar.

Danse’s hands have been bound by the words of more eloquent men than himself. Tied tight with ropes of clever arguments he cannot snap, no matter what his strength. 

Weiss kisses him as the sun sets over the Commonwealth, telling him they’ll be together again. Nothing will stop him from coming back. If he were one to die easily, fate would have caught him 200 years ago.

“Hold out your hand,” Weiss says.

Danse does as he’s told. 

Keeping the object covered, Weiss presses a small tab into Danse’s hand. Only after he’s pulled away, can Danse look at it.

WEISS  
VISHNU  
821-70-1873  
RH NEGATIVE  
NONE

It’s a single ID tag. Weiss’ tag, from when he was eighteen. Because he didn’t get any further in the military than that. Danse turns it over in his hand, looking at the unstamped side, then back to the personalized lettering.

“Why are you giving me this?”

Weiss laughs, “Fuck, I thought you’d be more sentimental than that.”

Oh.

“Thank you,” is still the best that Danse can manage in the moment. Weiss doesn’t seem upset in the least.

Danse ends up hanging the tag from the ball chain around his neck, settled next to his own. 

\--

The morning is brisk and clear, like all the other mornings lined up in a row. They’ve been lucky with the weather, though their hands get cold and they can see their breath. The teleporter is finished and Weiss says he’s ready. 

Sturges and Tom speak to one another. The former drawling slowly while the latter rushes through his last second thoughts on the functioning of the equipment. Everything has lead up to this moment. The hopes of so many, wanting finally to reach into the Institute. Weiss is going to accomplish this. 

Weiss refuses to wear armor for the mission. Dressed instead in dark slacks and a striped shirt, he explains to Piper and Danse that if he can’t protect himself with his charm, he’s as good as dead. There’s no other way for him to survive in this world. 

Danse tells him he at least has to take a pistol. On that count, he agrees.

Piper says her goodbyes first, though it comes out, “When you get back, you’re telling me everything.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll leave you two,” Piper says, stepping away. She keeps her hands in her coat pockets, walking over to where Sturges and Tom wait. 

All of Sanctuary waits. Bundled up in their coats, but Spring will break soon enough. The days are already getting longer. Soon enough, they’ll get warmer too. The hubflowers will come in again. And some of the hardy grasses that survived the end of the last world. They’re going to plant melons at Sanctuary. And corn.

Weiss smiles at him, one hand on the strap of his pack over his shoulder. He holds so tightly to it, his knuckles turn almost white. 

Danse can’t let this happen. He can’t let Weiss assume this risk. Full of chems, smoke, and shaking hands, he can’t hit a target at fifteen feet, and he can’t stop moving for even two minutes. He’s not suited. Weiss has never been suited for this. Only they pushed. Danse pushed too. They are all guilty and they are sending him to his demise. Weiss thinks he can win a war with words, tricks of the tongue. But words will be of little help as he’s reduced to ash, just for stepping through a portal not meant for him.

Reaching forward, Danse grabs Weiss’ other wrist, holding it tight in his hands. He has to make Weiss stay, to trade himself for Danse. For anyone who stands a shot at surviving. But Danse knows it is already too late. Weiss will not trust him with this. Because he’s still standing in an interstitial space, one between Weiss and the Brotherhood. He cannot easily phase from one to the other. Weiss wants him to give up the Brotherhood, but he can’t. And so, Weiss only trusts himself.

“Let me come,” Danse pleads. Perhaps Weiss does not trust him, but he can still use the assistance.

Weiss shakes his head, “It’s too dangerous. We don’t even know if it will work.”

“Then why are you using it?”

“Because, I’m the expendable one.”

“What?” Danse doesn’t understand.

“I’m the one who shouldn’t exist. And you know it.”

Danse realizes something, “You lied to me. When you said you’d come back.”

“I didn’t. Not like that,” his voice is strained, panicky. As if he’s been caught out. 

Pulling Weiss’ arm, Danse drags him a step towards him. He has to fight for this. “You can’t go.”

Whatever hesitation was there before, the slight fear that Weiss let show through when his lie came undone, dissipates. “I’m the only one who can do this,” he wrenches his arm out of Danse’s grip, but he doesn’t step away. They’re maddeningly close. Danse is only dimly aware that the rest of Sanctuary is staring. 

Danse opens his mouth to say something. Perhaps that he hates Weiss. But that is a lie. Maybe it would be better to say he’s sorry. But he isn’t. His heart pounds in his chest, but something else pounds in his skull, making his vision blurry. 

“I love you,” Danse manages. Though there is so much more.

Stepping forward, Weiss kisses him, slow and deliberate, in front of the entire settlement. And Danse has no intention of pulling away. Perhaps, this is how he gets Weiss to change his mind. Weiss curls his fingers in between Danse’s, locking their hands together. 

When Weiss pulls back, he’s not smiling, his lips set into a straight line. 

Stepping away, Weiss does not say another word. No comfort, no affection. He leaves Danse stranded, as the teleporter comes online. It’s loud. Louder than Danse expected. A giant hum of electricity and moving parts that will turn matter into nothingness, depositing it on the other side of the void. 

He wants to run, but his feet will not move. He wants to throw himself into the teleporter, wrapping his arms around Weiss and forcing them to travel together. With the teleporter sparking around Weiss’ frame, a heavy cloud pushes down on Danse’s shoulders, the pain inside his head crashing in a harsh wave. 

And then, Weiss is gone.


	23. White Room, A Reaction

Everything is white. And smells of lemons, sharp and synthetic, like the cleaner they used before the War to scrub the countertops and tile. The undercurrent of bleach lingers longer than the citrus. 

When the white fades, the room is dim. Pink and yellow lights speckle across the room. This must be the arrival point inside the Institute. Looking down, Weiss confirms that all his parts seem to be in the right place. Two arms, two legs, ten fingers, hopefully all his toes inside his boots. He touches his face, running his fingers down the bump of his nose, over his lips. Checking both his ears, he exhales. Intact. He’s come through the teleporter intact. 

The next room has a console that matches the one they built at Sanctuary. Otherwise, the room is large and empty. And clean. Fuck, everything here is so clean. The floors, the ceilings, everything has its place. 

Steel boxes line the white walls. Weiss steps further into the room. He was expecting someone, anyone, to be here. To try and stop him, or question him. He did not expect to step into the Institute unexpected. Everyone in the goddamn Wasteland seems to know his every step. So it can’t possibly be that they’ve really outsmarted the most advanced technological faction in the Commonwealth. 

“Hello?” Weiss calls out. Staying concealed gains him nothing. 

“Hello,” a voice responds, graveled with age. “I wondered if you might make it here. You’re quite resourceful.” 

Weiss snickers, “That’s one way to put it.” Really, he’s exhausted. Overworked, frazzled, on the edge of breaking. But he’s here. He’s done it. This is only the first step of many. The teleporter works. It can be used to get more people into, or out of, the Institute. 

The voice, still disembodied, coming from the walls, maybe, sounds like he understood the joke. “I am known as Father. The Institute is under my guidance.” 

Any second now, Weiss expects Father to maybe send some underlings to apprehend him. Choke him out or electroshock him or something. Subdue him or throw him in a cell. He looks at his Pipboy, trying to see if there is any way to send a message out. Fuck, if only he could let them know that it works. But it will have to wait.

He rifles through a box on a stainless table. It’s filled with unused needles, a syringe of med-x, he leaves it be. 

“I know why you’re here. I’d like to discuss things with you, face-to-face. Please, step into the elevator.” 

Looking down the stairs, he can see into the next room. Sure enough, there is a cylindrical glass elevator at the end of the hall. The door opens for him, letting him step inside. There’s a button to press, but it only thuds back at him, uninterested in his whims. The door slides shut behind him.

Weiss sticks his hands in his back pockets, waiting as the elevator descends. 

Father keeps on talking. “I can only imagine what you’ve heard. What you think of us.” As the elevator takes Weiss down, he can see the interior of the Institute. It’s white, green, and blue. With sparkling fountains and lush plant life, growing from the floor and trying to reach for the lights above. 

“I’d like to show you that you may have the wrong impression.”

It’s beautiful. 

“Welcome to the Institute,” Weiss can hear the smile in Father’s voice.

The elevator settles down, the door sliding open again to release Weiss. He walks down the doorless hallway until the pathway bends. 

“I’d like to talk to you about what we can do, for everyone.”

Weiss is here for many reasons. He’s here to keep a promise to his husband. But he has other promises to keep as well. To the Commonwealth, to Preston, to Valentine, to Piper. He has his promise to himself, to make this world better than the last one. To try and atone for the damage he has done, whether or not he was in the military at the moment the bombs dropped is irrelevant. Whether or not he benefited from Nate’s service, irrelevant too. All that matters now, is he did nothing to stop this from happening. No one did anything to stop this world from being born on the back of the atom bomb. But he can do something now.

“But that can wait,” Father soothes. “You are here for a very personal reason. You are here for your son.”

Around the corner, the lights are blinding white, bouncing off the walls. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, although the whiteness has been everywhere since he crossed the bridge of the teleporter. The head of dark hair, seated on top of a small body on the floor, comes into focus first.

The boy’s hands are folded in his lap, skin just darker than Weiss’, his hair a tighter curl. He looks just the same as he did in Kellogg’s memory, a boy of about ten, with slower movements than either him or Nate. Both of them were a little high strung. Fuck. Had they raised him, would Shaun have taken on the same forced habits?

“Shaun?” Weiss steps towards the glass, pressing his palms flat against it. But, fuck, Shaun was just a baby when he was taken. Ten years have passed for him. He won’t recognize Weiss. There isn’t anything to tie them together short of sixteen days under the same roof. “Fu-Oh my god...it’s really you.”

The boy pushes himself to his feet, hands gripping at the hem of his white tunic. The little embroidered image of a man, arms and legs spread, is patched to his shoulder. Even though he is bigger than he was when Weiss last saw him in the flesh, he still looks so small. In need of care.

“Who are you?” the boy asks.

Weiss realizes, for the first time, he doesn’t have the right answer for Shaun. He thinks, you are my son, but one I never properly cared for. One I hadn’t yet loved. Had you stayed longer, flower, maybe I could have. 

“I was your father,” why is the tense so hard to reconcile, “I am your father.”

Shaun sways on his feet, his eyes going unfocused. Weiss looks for a door, anything on the glass panel that will slide open so he can get to Shaun, so he can get him out of here. 

“It’s okay,” Weiss tries to soothe. “I’ll get you out.”

“Father? What is happening?”

“Shaun, where is the door? I’ll get you out.” He starts running his fingers against the surface of the glass again. There has to be a seam somewhere, a latch or a fissure in the glass. He has his laser pistol in his pack. But that will only melt a hole through the surface, it won’t help him.

“I don’t know you!” Shaun shrieks; Weiss falls silent. Of course he doesn’t. Shaun doesn’t know him. He barely knows Shaun. “Father! Father help me!”

And each time Shaun calls some other man ‘father,’ Weiss splinters inside his ribcage, sharp spikes trying to worm their way deeper into his lungs. 

“Father! Don’t let him take me! Father!”

Dropping to his knees, Weiss stares ahead into the glass. Nothing he can say will calm the child now. He is in hysterics. “Please, Shaun. I won’t hurt you. Flower, just breathe…”

Weiss hears the gentle whoosh of a door sliding open. Turning his head, he sees a man of about sixty step through the door. His hair has grayed, root to end, his beard as well. 

“Shaun, S9-23, recall code citrus.”

Looking back into the glass box, Weiss watches as Shaun shuts down, his head lolling without tension in his neck, his limbs going loose. For a moment, he sees not his son, his child, but his husband, the same limpness in his body after he thawed. 

Synth. This Shaun is a synth. 

Frantically, Weiss pushes himself away from the glass, sliding along the floor. The older man smiles softly at him.

“Disappointing,” the man’s arms stay lax at his sides. “Not the reaction I was hoping for. Not what I anticipated.”

Looking between the limp boy and the old man, Weiss realizes. “You, you’re Shaun.”

“I-yes,” he shakes his head, smile still in place. “I understand this may all be quite...emotional for you. I only hope you keep an open mind.”

“Shit, fuck,” Weiss stays on the ground, burying his face between his knees. The room has gone stark white again, everything spins. It’s too much all at once. He can still hear the child-synth screaming in his head, even as Shaun tries to comfort him.

“You have shown such tenacity in locating your son. In finding me.” Weiss can feel, vaguely, as Shaun crouches at his side, a hand rubbing over Weiss’ back. He blinks back the water in his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. “We have been observing you for quite some time now. And I believe we have the means to help each other.”

Weiss is going to be sick.

\--

Shaun tells him he should rest, shows him to a room. It is as sparkling-pristine as the rest of the facility. There is a terminal on the desk, a fresh pressed bed, and a potted plant that stretches from floor to ceiling. The plants here grow taller than the people. 

“After you have rested, there is much we should discuss.” Shaun keeps his hands outside the pockets of his labcoat. “Though, may I advise, I can have Dr. Volkert administer Addictol at your earliest convenience. It should help ease the symptoms of mentats withdrawal.”

Weiss covers his eyes, “You know?” Flopping back onto the bed, he doesn’t even bother with his boots. He really should take off his boots. Groaning, he sits back up so he can reach for the laces.

“Yes, as I mentioned, we have been observing your progress for quite some time. Ah, though I have had my personal suspicions on one account. If you would indulge me?”

Shit. How much does the Institute know? They know about the mentats. Do they know about Danse? Almost certainly. His stomach churns. He should just dose before lying down. Grabbing his pack from the side of the bed, he pulls it up into his lap, fishing around for his tin.

“What?” He puts two pills in his mouth, following them with water from his own bottle.

“Your vision is impaired? There were some reports that suggest this is the case. And I noticed that you squint at objects in the distance?”

Because of the mentats, his vision is quite sharp at the moment. He doesn’t know why he burned through the last set of pills so quickly. Perhaps because of the teleporter? No one really knew how his cells would react. How he would react. If he would even be reassembled properly on the other side, considering they built the fucking thing out of shoelaces and tin cans. Fuck.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Before the War, did you wear glasses?”

Weiss shakes his head, “No, but my eyes didn’t work the same after coming out of the cryo pod.” But his vision had been clear as ever, as Kellogg broke open Nate’s pod, ripped Shaun away. So whatever happened, happened after that.

“Ah, yes of course. It all makes sense. Vault-Tec’s grasp of cryogenic freezing was admittedly quite advanced. But they never provisioned for the pods to be used more than once. And certainly, Kellogg would not have known how to operate the equipment. A useful man, but,” Shaun shakes his head. “Can I admit? I am not sad to have seen him killed at your hand.”

Wincing, Weiss lays back down in bed, throwing his forearm over his eyes to blot out the light. “Something came over me.”

“Yes, a father’s grief.”

Does Shaun have children? Grandchildren? Is it even appropriate for Weiss to ask? He’s not sure the answer would make much of a difference.

“In any case. In addition to curing your addition. The doctor may be able to correct your vision. Had the problem been congenital, we may have used a laser to correct the defect. But it sounds as if the damage may be more extensive than that. There are, however, still options.”

Weiss doesn’t want to admit this is something he wants. That he wants, desperately, to be fixed. He thought finding Shaun was the first step. And maybe it still is. “Yeah, alright. We’ll see.”

“I will see you when you wake,” Shaun finishes, before letting the door slide shut behind him.

\--

When Weiss wakes, Shaun is nowhere to be seen, but there is a datapad on the desk, next to the terminal. Weiss picks it up, reading the note left by Shaun. While he is currently indisposed, Weiss should report to Volkert as soon as possible, as well as a number of department heads. They have all been briefed on his arrival, and are to treat Weiss with the utmost respect. 

There’s a set of clean clothes laid out as well. Slacks and a white tunic, similar to what the researchers wear. Weiss wipes his hand across his mouth. He has a headache again. Okay, alright. He should see about this Volkert.

He showers quickly before getting changed. Now he looks like he fits in the Institute, he’s as clean as the rest of them. Lacing up his own shoes, he tosses the datapad into his pack as well before leaving the room. 

Neat, block letters direct him towards the clinic. Other signage directs towards “Advanced Systems,” “Biosciences,” and “Robotics.” Virgil told Weiss that he should be able to access the FEV lab through biosciences. He’s got to get to that cure, if he can. There are also holos in his bag for copying two sets of files. One for Tom, another for Ingram. Honestly, he’s not sure if he’ll hand over either tape. But not having them means one less bargaining chip. And Weiss still needs all the “friends” he can manage.

Or does he?

Shit.

Volkert appears to be in his late sixties, his hair gray all the way through and the veins in his hands prominent and blue. He does not smile when he sees Weiss, but does offer that he has been expecting him.

“Mr. Weiss, we’re all a bit cautious, you must understand,” he motions for Weiss to take a seat on the examining table. “Outsiders are almost unheard of. And though Father has instructed us to give you the run of the facility, it makes many around here nervous.”

“Can’t blame you in the slightest.” Weiss hops up on the table, sitting as far back as he can before the backs of his knees hit the edge of the padding. Volkert starts the standard exam without preamble. Weiss took the liberty of curing his own rads before departing for the Institute. He doesn’t expect Volkert to find much. Still, he breathes in and out on command, the doctor listening to his lungs and heart. He mocks a bit of pain when Volkert draws blood.

“So,” Weiss smiles, leaning forward a bit, “Give it to me straight, doc.”  
Volkert shakes his head, finally cracking a small smile. “You’re in excellent health, for the most part. I wouldn’t advise the continued smoking, it’ll catch up with you, eventually.

“Though I can’t see the damage to your eyes, I have some theories about what may have happened,” he folds his arms over his chest before leaning against the wall.

“You know about my eyes?”

“Father sent me some notes. But, I suppose we should work on your addiction first?”

Weiss presses his palms flat to the table. “None of the docs have been able to touch it.”

Volkert nods, “Of course not, because it’s not just the chemical addiction. I have, in fact, read a bit on the subject.”

“I see better on them. So, maybe, we’d be better fixing my eyes first, if you have a plan.”

“I take it glasses are out of the question?” Volkert tries.

Weiss shakes his head, “Have you seen the conditions up there? I’d lose them or break them in a day. Besides, they’d cramp my style.”

“Like a chem addiction doesn’t?”

“Not really,” Weiss smirks, “drugs are cool.” He waves his hand for emphasis.

Snickering, Volkert shakes his head. “We should do a scan. Follow me to the next room.”

Weiss ends up flat on another cot, a scanner sliding over his face. A bright beam of light strobes every few seconds, then quicker and quicker.

“Try and keep your eyes open,” Volkert suggest.

It’s a good thing Weiss isn’t claustrophobic in the least. The scanner is a bit of a tight fit over his neck and face. And the sound is near deafening when the machine strobes. He’s trapped under it for several minutes before Volkert pulls the machine away.

A series of photographs come up on the display on the side of the device. Volkert flips through them, zooming in on particular features. “I think when your capillaries refroze, hell, it doesn’t matter. But It’s not just the cornea that’s damaged. As I said before, I have an idea.”

Weiss stands behind him, trying to get a look at the scans over Volkert’s shoulder, his hands go for the pockets of his slacks, before he realizes the longish tunic is in the way. “Hit me with it?”

“Father should really be here to approve.” Volkert glances at the clock on the wall. “He’s in meetings for another hour. If he’s keeping to today’s schedule. Why don’t you head back here around then, we’ll see what I can do for you.”

Weiss doesn’t argue. An hour. That’s an hour he can spend grabbing the cure or downloading data. 

Promising a prompt return, Weiss says goodbye to Volkert.

He’s got no idea how long it will take to check out the labs, so he looks for a terminal instead. Tom assured him that his holo should be able to rip all the information it needs from any networked machine. Ingram offered no such assurances regarding hers, only that they were unlikely to be detected. 

Weiss is too cautious to use the terminal in his room. Instead, he walks through biosciences, finding an empty bank of machines in a back office. It’s an added bonus that he notices a sign directing him towards the FEV lab, though the door appears to be locked. He’ll need a key for it. Shit.

Focusing instead on the terminal in front of him, he keys it on, surprised when it doesn’t ask him for credentials for any kind. It welcomes him to the network, giving a list of options in regards to the plant and animal specimens held in the lab.

Weiss pops in Tom’s tape first. He hunches forward in the chair, waiting while the holo does what it’s been programmed to do. He can’t believe it’s this fucking easy. But then he remembers, they’re not used to outsiders. Security is worryingly lax.

When it’s finished, the tape pops up, startling Weiss, who had been keeping his eye on the door instead of the terminal. He inserts the second tape, still refusing to relax. 

The whole process takes less than twenty-five minutes. Rather than leave right away, he flips through files on the terminal. If someone were to ask him what he’s doing back here, he could always say he was curious about the mating cycles of sea anemones. 

\--

When Weiss returns to the clinic, Shaun is already waiting with Dr. Volkert, the two men speaking in clipped conversation. Still, when Weiss enters, Shaun turns to smile at him. 

“I trust everyone has been treating you appropriately?”

Weiss returns the smile, he does not need to give Shaun any reason to fret over him. “Exceedingly polite.”

“Good, good,” Shaun turns back to Volkert, “I hate to have you explain again, Dr. Volkert, but my father should know the details of what you’re considering.”

Volkert clears his throat, eyes shifting from Shaun over to Weiss. “Given that I can ascertain internal damage, as well as the scraping of your cornea, I’d advise a full transplant of your eyes. I cannot see any damage to the optic nerve itself. But this is a procedure we’ve accomplished before.”

Weiss shakes his head, “You’ve transplanted whole eyes?”

“Well,” Volkert hesitates.

Shaun picks up for him, “We’ve transplanted eyes between third generation synths before. The process should be identical. And trust me, father, I would not suggest it, if the procedure posed any risk to you. We can do this.”

“But where would the eyes come from?” Weiss questions.

Shaun answers quite succinctly, “A decommissioned synth. I’ve already asked biosciences to deliver a brown set from cold storage.” He smiles softly, “Please, trust me. As I have trusted you.”

Taking a deep breath, Weiss decides, “Okay, let’s do this, then.”


	24. Traitors to an Ideal One Can't Quite Believe

Danse takes his rifle apart. Piece by piece. He cleans each component with a mixture of water, abraxo, and mutfruit juice. He puts his rifle back together. 

That only occupies a few hours of his first morning alone in Sanctuary. 

The teleporter sits quiet in the center of the town. Every two hours, Struges checks the monitor on one of the control panels. He never adjusts anything. Only ever looks at the screen.

Danse sits on the floor of the garage, his back against the narrow support beam at one corner, and watches the rest of Sanctuary life plod along. But he doesn’t belong here. He is perpetually out of place, in the way.

The synth leaves with Tom, telling Piper that it is taking the engineer ‘home,’ as his assistance is not needed at the moment. She wishes them well, but stays behind at the settlement. MacCready says he’s going too, but the synth stops him, saying it will be back just as soon as possible. The little mercenary pouts. An immature sort of look that seems out of place on his features. Danse very often forgets that MacCready is so young. 

Afternoon becomes evening. And the next day comes. The synth isn’t back and MacCready stalks the settlement. Danse has already run out of things to do.

He considers returning to the Prydwen. Weiss clearly no longer needs his assistance to ‘take back the Commonwealth.’ He never needed Danse at all. And Danse isn’t sure if that is a slap in the face, or a relief. If he should be deeply offended for being left behind, forgotten, unnecessary. Or if the fluttering feeling inside his chest is the more accurate emotion. Weiss didn’t need him. All this time, he was not needed, but wanted. 

Garvey finds Danse in the same location on the second morning, and the third, asking if he is doing alright? If they want to have breakfast together? So they sit, side by side at the edge of the garage, and eat cakes baked from wheat and Brahmin butter, and stuffed with sticky-sour tarberries. Danse thinks he would like them better with more sugar, but he never complains aloud.

On the fourth morning, Garvey asks Danse if he wants to help? They’re nearly out of meat, and Codsworth detected a group of radstags up in the hills above the settlement overnight. “They may still be there.”

“Alright,” Danse accepts Garvey’s offered hand, pulling up off the ground and dusting off the front of his jeans, then the back. 

“Let's get you a rifle then. Can’t have you ashing the game.”

“Of course.”

Danse selects a hunting rifle from Garvey’s collection. It’s well maintained, even if it does look worn. The butt of the gun is somewhat damaged, the wood dented in. And the metal of the trigger is ultra smooth, worn down by use and oils from many fingers.

They’re careful making their way through gnarled thatches of dead trees. Cautious of their steps, they try to keep noise to a minimum. Coming out here with Garvey is a good idea. He doesn’t expect Danse to talk. And he doesn’t talk much either. They try to follow the trail the stags left, broken twigs and soft footprints. 

Garvey spots them first, tapping Danse on the shoulder and pointing out where three radstags graze along the floor, feeding on whatever organic debris they can find. To root up food, they have to stick their snouts quite close to the ground, pawing with their hooves, leaving them somewhat vulnerable. But creatures so large do not survive over centuries of harsh conditions by being particularly defenseless. While two feed, the third keeps alert.

They should both fire into one deer, maximizing their chance for the kill. Once one of them shoots, the stags will all scatter. Garvey holds up three fingers, and Danse understands, nodding his assent. They take aim at the same buck, the largest of the three, who still has his face to the floor. Danse only waits for Gravey’s first finger to fold down, they count off the next two beats in their heads before pulling their triggers.

Garvey’s bullet catches the stag in the throat. Danse’s, a little lower in the stag’s chest, just to the left of where he intended. The beast staggers, but does not fold completely, lurching away. Danse gets a second shot off, hitting it squarely in the meat of its chest this time. Perfect.

The stag goes down hard, crashing into the ground. The other two are already long gone, not worth chasing. But the one buck should get everyone portions of protein for quite awhile. This has been a good outing.

“Excellent,” Garvey smiles brightly. While his teeth are not as white as Weiss’, they are considerably better kept than most Wasters, despite the fact he smokes. Danse has seen him chewing on bark in between meals. 

Garvey pulls a long, heavy knife from his waistband, a machete really, though the shape is slightly different. 

Taking off his coat, Garvey rolls up his shirt sleeves as well. “We should dress it out here. No use in dragging it back to make a mess.” Garvey taps the heel of his knife against the sternum of the stag, only turning it blade-side when he’s satisfied he’s found the right spot. He cuts deep and sure, dragging almost all the way down the center of the animal before pulling his knife back out. His hands are already starting to bloody. 

Danse holds the stag in the correct position when Garvey asks him. Otherwise the two men are not keen to engage in conversation. It is not until Garvey is cutting the membranes and arteries, that hold the organs in place, that they break the silence with anything of consequence. 

“How are you holding up?” Garvey asks. And Danse realizes that each and every time Garvey has asked him if they should have breakfast together, this is the question he was really asking. Only, Danse had not recognized it as such before this moment.

And he’s not sure how to answer. If his words will be used against him.

“Can you wrap the liver in the newspaper?” Garvey nods towards his pack, stuffed full of supplies for parceling out the deer.

Having a task to do with his hands relaxes Danse long enough to answer, and while he is binding together the packaged liver with twine, he says, “I’m worried.”

“Yeah, we all are.” Garvey gives Danse enough space to say more. But when he says nothing, Garvey resumes his own train of thought. “But we just gotta believe Vishnu is coming back. He’s a good man. He makes mistakes.” Garvey breathes deeply, turning his face away from the butchered stag. “But he believes in us. And we should believe in him.”

Danse wants to. He really does.

\--

By evening, Garvey has left Sanctuary to check in on some of the other settlements. He says it improves morale and cohesion when they see a tangible Minutemen presence at regular intervals. Danse does not doubt it. He asks, quite sincerely, if Danse would like to come along. The trip should take no more than a week. Danse politely declines. He wishes to be here if Weiss returns. He does not say as much directly, but Danse has the feeling that Garvey understands why he must stay.

Danse is behind the barracks when he hears them. It’s Wright’s voice that is distinct first. She is standing with MacCready by the edge of the river.

“I knew. I’ve known for awhile,” Piper says.

“And you still trust him?”

Danse’s chest seizes sharply. Are they speaking of him?

“Of course I do. Robert, come on, that was a long, long time ago. People can change. They can want to be better.”

No, not about him, then, about Weiss.

MacCready’s voice comes in rapid, pinched spurts.

“It’s just, fu-those people, some of them, they were guilty, right? And he let them walk free.”

“Who are you to object anyway? You’ve killed people. We’ve all killed people,” her voice hitches. “Things were different before the War. The government just didn’t get to kill you back after you were accused of killing someone. They had to prove it.”

“Is that the line he fed you about it?” MacCready’s voice gets harsher, but it’s laced with something else. Nervousness.

“It’s true. Fuck, Robert. I know he regrets...some of it.”

“Did he ever tell you about the people he set free?” There’s more resolve in MacCready’s tone now.

“Ah, not specifically. But he did tell me some were guilty. He had no doubt. But, Robert, have you read about the world before the War? How many things the government could lock you away for? Could kill you for? Lots of people were guilty of lots of things…”

“Listen, Piper, I gotta tell you something, okay? And you gotta listen. There isn’t anyone else I can talk to about this.”

She sounds uncertain, “Okay.”

“So, Nick, before the War, right, before he was a synth? He was supposed to marry this girl. Jennifer Lands. But she was killed before they got the chance...a guy named Eddie Winter set it up. Had her killed while Nick was working the case. He was some sort of bigshot mob boss or something. Really high profile stuff.”

Danse isn’t sure he’s heard MacCready string together so many words at a time before.

“He had this crazy plan, to make himself a ghoul. Lock himself away and live forever that way. He disappeared before Nick could get to him...but we found him. Nick and me. We found the bunker he’d been living in for over two-hundred years. Piper...Nick killed him. And...I don’t know, Nick was a little weird for a bit. You know, not responding to me. So I went through some of Winter’s stuff, just, looking. I guess. Force of habit. But I found these.”

Danse can’t see what MacCready means, but after a moment he hears Wright flipping through pages of something.

“There were all these legal documents in the bunker, Piper. Weiss’ name is on a lot of them. A lot of them. I think Weiss helped Winter escape from justice. And not like, you know, whatever noble way Weiss has told you he defended people. He helped make Winter disappear.”

“Robert...have you told Nick? Or Vishnu?”

“No, I haven’t told anyone but you. I-I, don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t tell you what to do. But Vishnu is not a bad person,” she sounds less sure than before.

Danse can’t listen any longer. He’s heard enough. His hands are shaking as he throws his forearm over his eyes, blotting out what little light still casts across the settlement. He has to move before he’s caught. Before they know he’s heard.

Swallowing hard, he tries to catch his breath before the feet of his lungs get too far out in front of him. Weiss only ever explained to him very generally what he did. And yes, he had read about lawyers in books. But Danse didn’t know. Didn’t know that Weiss knew those people were guilty, deserving of punishment, and it was his job to let them walk free. Incomprehensible. A good person, a just one, does not do this. Weiss should not have done this. And yet he did. 

Weiss subverted justice. Not just once. Many times. He built his career on lies crafted from his lips. 

Danse should head back around to the other side of the building. He should go to bed. But instead he crosses the plain of the settlement to stand in front of the teleporter. It’s still silent. Sturges has started checking the machine every six hours, instead of four. The intervals grow further and further apart.

He can’t pretend he knows how any of it works. Only that when he stands near the contraption, there is an odd, staticy dread in his hands and feet.

Unable to look at the teleporter any longer, he crosses under its shadow to continue on to Weiss’ old home. It’s still largely untouched. 

He sits in front of the holoplayer, that monstrosity of pre-War extravagance. Weiss owned many expensive things before the War. Many things others could not afford. He shields himself with money and status. He’s told Danse all these things about himself. Yet somehow failed to mention the materials out of which he built his fortifications.

There are a number of holos stored in the shelves below the player, labeled in scratchy handwriting. Danse pulls a tape labeled “Galecia 1.”

Standing, Danse finds where he is to insert the tape in the machine. He waits for the picture, but the soundtrack cuts in first.

“Testing?”

Then the video. Weiss appears on the holoplayer, looking much the same as he does now. His face is a little fuller, but the weight he has lost has been in the few months Danse has known him. His hair is tied very tightly back, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. He clears his throat before continuing.

“I am here to argue that a substantial injustice has been done against my client, Taylor Galicia. She has been a victim of the State for the last eight months she has been held in custody; and a victim of society since her birth.

“We do not live in a world where young men and women, like Ms. Galicia-”

While his words come easily enough, Weiss’ motions are somewhat sharper than they are normally. His hand shakes. And a few minutes in, he has to reach forward, grabbing something from behind the camera. It’s a stack of papers. He reads the rest of his argument directly from the text. When he finishes-

“Her treatment has been deplorable, and the simple matter is, the detectives who so viciously crafted their case, were not so diligent in their adherence to the law they swore to protect.”

-he sighs deeply. Dropping the paper to the floor, he rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes before flicking the camera off.

There’s another tape. “Galicia 2.” Danse tries that one in the player.

“I am here to paint a picture for you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. An injustice has been committed against my client, Taylor Galicia. And it is not one suffered by her alone. This is the plight of the young people of our city, our country. The world we have chosen to build, together, leaves our children persecuted by the police, abandoned by society from the start.”

The content of his argument is largely the same. Taylor Galicia started her life as a petty criminal, stealing out from under the noses of her betters when her mother couldn’t afford to feed her. Out on her own by fifteen, unable to find work. She joined one of the city’s crime families, hoping to put a roof over her head and food in her stomach. By the time she was nineteen, she had shot down two men. Two men she had already drugged, bound, and gagged. She ripped off their fingernails one by one before she did it. She never said she regretted it. That she was sorry.

And even though Weiss lays out all these facts, Danse can’t help but ache for the girl he hasn’t seen, who may not even be real. But Weiss speaks about her as if she is real, and as if she is not guilty, not because she didn’t kill those men, but because her life could not have gone any other way.

In the second tape Weiss’ movements are more fluid, less jittery. He no longer reads from a manuscript, and some of his points from the first tape are more clearly elaborated.

Danse tries “Galicia 3.”

The same content, better movements, more convincing arguments. Taylor Galicia can be punished no more for this double homicide than she was for stealing bread from bakery trash bins when she was eight years old. If the state could not save her then, they cannot punish her now.

Weiss is practicing, refining his technique. Some movements match exactly those he performed in the tape before, but overall he is more poised, more elegant. He smiles at the right place, even when he tugs at his shirt sleeve, Danse realizes it is an artificial affectation.

Everything about Weiss is a practiced lie.

Everything.

\--

Danse is pulling his breakfast from the cabinet when MacCready startles him. His ashy brown hair a mess and his eyes unfocused, the merc apologizes half heartedly. Danse’s hands curl tightly around his coffee mug. He’s been waiting for the grounds to settle at the bottom. 

At this hour, he’s normally the only one awake. Or at least, the only one trying to find breakfast.

Danse wants to ask MacCready about last night. About the words he was not supposed to hear. But before Danse can say anything, MacCready yawns wide, srunching his face up as he does so. There’s another set of footsteps, the synth appearing the doorframe.

“Sorry it took me so long to get back,” the synth apologizes.

MacCready perks up slightly, but there’s still a heaviness to him. “Nick.”

They both seem to forget Danse is there, his back pressed to the refrigerator. But the synth is blocking the doorway back out, so Danse has no choice but to wait until they remember. MacCready comes up on his toes to press his lips to the synth’s. Danse feels as if he may vomit.


	25. I Know How to Wind You Up and Knock You Down

Weiss has been at the Institute for six days. 

Shaun replaces his eyes. He can see again, like he could before the War, and he’s so happy he could cry. Instead, he pulls his son close, patting him on the back. He feels a great warmth in his chest when he feels Shaun smile against his shoulder.

He copies the data for both Tom and Ingram, though he has not yet decided if he will provide either of them what they ask.

And he recovers Virgil’s cure. On this matter, he has decided. Virgil did not have to help him. Could have killed them all when they first came to his home in the Glowing Sea, but he did help, and Weiss promised him the cure. So he will return to Virgil’s cave, and give him the means to become human again.

He’s still bleeding under his shirt from where he was grazed by turret fire in the FEV labs. He hopes that it doesn’t seep through his makeshift bandages. He bids Shaun goodbye. He makes no promises to return, but Shaun assumes he will, telling Weiss that they still have more, much more, to discuss. “But I understand you must return to your friends. They are already anxious to see you again.”

Weiss shakes his head, “How do you know?”

Shaun smiles, “The birds tell us.”

“Right,” Weiss is taken aback for a moment, “of course.”

One of the scientists, a heavyset woman with a broad nose and broader hips finishes the work on Weiss’ Pipboy. Shaun insisted it be modified so that Weiss can come and go to and from the Institute as he pleases. It’s convenient, for sure, but it will allow them to track Weiss, wherever he goes. They have already proven to know his comings and goings, even without the extra chip. 

“All set,” the scientist smiles at him. She’s more open and expressive than most.

Weiss checks his Pipboy, navigating to the map. He should be able to select a location anywhere, and materialize there. Wild. Just wild. And to think most of this technology existed while he was alive...last alive...fuck. Only the public didn’t know, back then. What else didn’t they know?

“I hope to see you again soon, father,” when Shaun smiles, the creases around his dark eyes deepen. 

“Soon,” Weiss says. And it doesn’t feel like a lie, because he will be back here, he’s sure. Only, he can’t be certain of the circumstances.

He aims his map for Sanctuary and activates the chip.

The sensation is identical to using the teleporter, staticky and white and tingly all over, harder in his chest and like sparklers on his fingertips.

He half expects to land inside the teleporter again, but he doesn’t. Instead he materializes on the other side of the bridge, having to cross over the river himself. He’s only halfway over the bridge when Dogmeat runs up to greet him, launching himself up off the ground. Weiss barely reacts fast enough to catch him, bundling the dog against his shoulder.

“Hey buddy, I missed you too, hah,” he carries Dogmeat with him until he reaches the garage. Setting the dog back down, he heads inside, looking for his companions. Sturges is at the stove. He looks up from what he’s got going on the skillet.

“You’re back,” Struges eyes go wide. “The teleporter? I didn’t hear it activate.”

Fuck, this is the most conversation Weiss and Sturges have had in months. Even when working on the teleporter, they didn’t talk much. Weiss accepts that he’s not going to win the mechanic over. Not again.

“They modified my Pipboy at the Institute. I won’t need the teleporter anymore to travel back and forth. At least, I won’t.”

Sturges turns off the heat on the stove, putting the spatula in the pan. “How’d you convince them to do that?”

“Didn’t, it was their idea.”

Sturges nods slowly. Wiping down his hands with a mostly-white dishrag, he changes the direction of the conversation. “Piper should be over in the other building. I haven’t seen Danse since yesterday afternoon. Preston is out on a settlement run.”

“Okay, thanks,” Weiss turns to leave, his hand gripping the open doorframe.

Sturges interjects, just for a second, “It’s good you came back,” he hisses air between his teeth. “We’re making a difference, here.”

“Yeah,” Weiss smiles, “I hope we are.”

“I’ll never forgive you. I can’t. But,” he shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest, “I do appreciate you’re trying to be a better person.”

“Thanks, Sturges, it means alot, coming from you.” 

Weiss finally manages to duck out. Dogmeat is still waiting for him outside. Trotting along behind him as he walks to the sleeping quarters, the dog doesn’t seem to have much going on for himself today. Sometimes he’s around, sometimes he’s not. Weiss doesn’t really question it. 

Piper’s not inside, neither is Danse. This is proving to be quite the homecoming.

He’s not about to walk from house to house, but he does take the path leading back to his old home. Lighting a cigarette as he goes, he doesn’t expect anyone to be inside. But as he approaches, he sees a head of dark hair through the window. It’s Danse, sitting in the center of Weiss’ old, ruined living room.

When he opens the door, Danse must stand up, moving faster than he does normally because he’s right there in Weiss’ face as he crosses the threshold. 

Danse’s light eyes have a sharpness to them, an accusation. “Where have you been?”

“The Institute,” but Danse knows that?

“Who are you?”

Weiss shakes his head, this isn’t funny. Danse isn’t a funny sort of person either. “I’m me, Weiss. Vishnu.”

Danse looks at him a long moment before his eyes widen. Grabbing Weiss by the shoulders, he drags him outside, out of the dim building and into the light of day. He slams Weiss back against the exterior siding, the beams shuttering with the impact of Weiss’ body. It knocks the wind out of Weiss too, and for a moment, his head spins. Shit. What did Weiss do, or say? He doesn't know what went wrong, only that Danse looks scared and hurt and fucking furious all at once. So it must have been something.

“What did you do with him?” Danse roars. And for a moment, Weiss thinks this is it, this is how he dies. Because he's watched Danse rip apart a Courser. He's seen every inch of Danse’s body, the precision with which it can move. He's seen Danse with a rifle and bare handed. He's seen a lot of things that confirm Danse is incredibly dangerous. All things considered.

And he's considered one day that lethal impulse, the one that made Danse choose to be a soldier, because there is always a choice, will be directed at him.

Danse bars his arm across Weiss’ chest, holding him in place against the wall. It's keeping Weiss from fully expanding his lungs. With his other hand, Danse reaches to his hip, pulling a switchblade and holding it against Weiss’ neck. They lock eyes again and Danse looks like he's drowning. As if Weiss isn't the one short of breath.

“What did you do with him?” Danse repeats.

“Fuck!” It's Piper. Weiss can't actually see around Danse’s body, too big and too close. And while Weiss is taller, the position he’s in doesn't give him the space to look anywhere else. “Danse what the fuck are you doing?” Piper yells again. She’s close, but keeping her distance. Her boots against the cracked pavement stop several steps back.

Weiss can hear them now, over his own thudding heartbeat and Danse’s unceasing breath. The other Sanctuary residents have gathered around. They talk in murmurs, unwilling to approach. They probably have the right idea.

“Danse?” Weiss finally finds his voice. “What’s wrong? You know who I am.” He doesn't dare try to touch him back, though his arms are not quite restrained.

“You're not him,” Danse hisses, resting his weight more heavily against Weiss’ chest. He keeps the knife at the point of breaking. “Don't deny it.”

Weiss frowns, “What makes you say that?” He tries to keep the fear out of his voice.

“The Institute isn't as clever as they think. The eyes are wrong.”

Oh.

Weiss hadn't thought much of it at the time. Brown are brown are brown. He never saw anything remarkable in his own eyes. It didn't occur to him that Danse would have. Though, that's strange. Because he does consider the lightness of Danse’s eyes quite beautiful. So maybe brown isn't just brown, isn't just.

“Yes, Danse,” Weiss starts, “my eyes are different now. They were replaced. To fix the damage. I couldn't see properly, you knew that, right?”

Danse frowns, turning away for a moment, then sharply back. Though this time he looks at things other than Weiss’ eyes. The bump in his nose, the curl of his lip, the line of his throat. The rest of him must look right. It's only the eyes they swapped.

“Prove it,” Danse challenges.

Weiss smiles, because he's quite certain he can do this.

“Tell me something only he would know,” Danse pleads. And there it is again, the hesitation, the fear. Danse wants to be wrong.

It's painful. Of course it is. But Weiss can think of no better truth than the one they both know, but have never said aloud. So he pushes the words out as smoothly as he can manage.

“I always say l love you, and you never believe me.”

Danse drops his switchblade into the dirt, turning on his heels and stalking away. He's convinced, but still wound up. Weiss lets him walk. He rubs the flat of his hand against his chest, where the pressure has abated.

Piper rushes up to take Danse’s place. Reaching up, she rubs Weiss’ arm. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah,” Weiss breathes deeply, “that could have gone better.”

\--

Weiss gives Danse an hour to calm down before trying to locate him. All the witnesses, and there are many of them, saw him pounding off towards the hill. Towards 111. Weiss sticks his laser pistol in the back of his slacks and heads off in that direction.

He sees evidence enough that someone has been through here in a rage, broken branches as Danse grabbed low hanging appendages and ripped them clean from the slow-decaying trunks. Weiss follows the trail until he reaches the hill, then retraces the steps he took two hundred ten years ago.

At the top, he watches for several minutes as the sun sets over the remains of Boston. Hitting the horizon, the sun sets the wreckage on fire, too brilliant to look at for too long. 

He takes the elevator down. He doesn't want to be here. But before he can even reach the bottom, he can already hear Danse below, pacing the floor with his heavy steps. Danse is never subtle.

Weiss is at least relieved that he doesn't have to enter the cryo room to find Danse. That would be too much, too cruel. Instead, Danse treks the aisle, where they had lined up to be processed.

“Danse?”

Danse turns sharply, his features still drawn tight. “I meant to go inside. But I couldn't.”

“Why?” Weiss asks. “Why go inside?”

Danse shakes his head. “I thought perhaps,” he tears at the front of his hair, “there was a truth here that I could not find in your home.”

“I don't have a home,” Weiss doesn't mean to say it aloud.

“Your husband’s body is still inside there, isn't it?”

Weiss nods, “Yes.” Thinking about it makes him feel fragile, exposed. He never came back to bury Nate. On the other side of the door, his body is decomposing with the other half of Weiss’ tags around his neck. 

He'd promised to find Shaun. Everything has been to keep his promise to Nate. And still, he fails. Weiss knows he has failed. Because Shaun grew up in a beautiful home, he had the best education this would could offer, he knows neither violence nor hardship. If there is a success story left on this planet, it is their son.

And still, Weiss fails. Because he always intended to love Shaun as much as Nate did.

And he didn't. He doesn't.

Danse turns away from the sealed door. “Tell me about Winter.”

This couldn't possibly get any worse. 

Weiss has known this conversation was coming. He's known since the moment he met this-world’s Val. Known since Sturges dug up those old Boston Bugles. Only, this isn't the person he expected to have to explain this to. 

“God, fuck.” Sticking his hands into the pockets of his slacks, Weiss starts to pace as Danse winds down. His shoulders tense, “Alright, listen, fuck,” he pulls at the end of his ponytail. There aren't enough things in the world for his hands to be doing. He lights a cigarette. Maybe that will help.

“Winter was a real piece of work. Real good businessman, real good at putting competitors out of business, too, right? But he also knew everyone who knew everyone, and then some, in Boston’s so-called criminal underground. Except people like that, they're never really under anything. They're right on top.” He takes a drag of his cigarette.

Danse's attention is intently focused, trailing Weiss as he steps back and forth, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

“He had hired me on for a couple of cases prior, but I never knew it was him. Not directly. I was defending his kids though, you know, fuck.” There's just so much to explain. “The economy was shit. Yeah? You guys still learn that, right? There were no jobs...inflation was fucking insane. They were throwing people in goddamn camps because their great-great-grandparents had been born on the wrong continent.

“I liked defending these kids, and I was good at it. If I had been ten or so years younger, I could have been one of them. I barely made it before everything went to shit. So maybe I didn't question how these street thugs had the money to pay. At least someone was looking out for them. The government sure as fuck wasn’t…

“So, then I got approached one day. Guy said he's an associate of Eddie Winter. I knew the name. Everyone involved in the criminal justice system in Boston knew his name. Turned out, Winter was ‘a fan of my work,’” he gestures with his cigarette, making scare quotes with curved fingers.

“I wasn’t the only one on Winter’s legal team, there were a bunch of us. Only, as far as I could tell, there weren’t any charges against him when I was first hired. Fine, okay, so now I was a consultant for the mob. At least now I knew where those checks were coming from. So no actual charges, but a lot of hypothetical ones. How would I defend against to charge or that. I try explaining that I don't work like that. I work off of context, mistakes, advantages. I can't build something out of nothing. I've got tools, but they need to give me lumber.”

Weiss doesn't even realize he's burned his cigarette all the way down. He tosses away the filter.

“So one day,” Weiss hisses between his teeth, “they gave me lumber. Jenny Lands was dead. And I had to make this problem go away.”

“She was engaged to Nick Valentine. The one whose memories are in the synth?”

Weiss feels he should correct Danse, because his understanding of how Nick Valentine and Val are linked seems somehow wrong. At the same time, Weiss isn't entirely sure his assumptions are any better.

“Yeah,” he licks over his teeth, “she was Detective Valentine’s girl. But I knew her too. She was a public prosecutor. We didn't often end up on the same case...but…I would see her at the courthouse, fuck.

“I combed through the evidence as it stood, trying to follow the district attorney’s every step as they built their case. Because now I had to defend a man, who killed a woman I used to see in front of the damn vending machine trying to decide between Dandy Boys and Fancy Lads. I watched her eviscerate people with her arguments. Not that she was as good as me,” he smiles weakly, “but she was pretty good.”

Weiss runs his hand down over his face, before sticking the tip of his index finger into his mouth, biting at the short nail.

“Then I got another call, this time from the Feds. Winter had already agreed to turn on a dozen other people, other bosses, supply chains, offshore dealings, big, big stuff. I'd been duped the whole time, as to not blow the operation. I was a stooge from day one,” Weiss shakes his head. “Winter, he wanted to live forever, and was ready to sell out half the continent to do it. And the Feds were ready to provide him with anything he wanted in exchange. So yeah. I still had to front for the Lands case. A case that was never going to trial because Winter ended up getting a vacation home under his favorite drinking hole. Fuck.”

Weiss is exhausted. He's certain he's missed something, something important. But he manages to hit the high points of his involvement with Winter. But he's certain Danse has questions, and he's his answers will not all be to the Paladin’s satisfaction. Putting his middle finger into his mouth, he bites on that nail instead until it rips. Shit.

“Are you proud of what you did?” Danse asks, keeping the volume of his voice low, though they are the only two alive underneath the hill.

“I don't think it matters,” Weiss admits.

He expects more questions, but they do not come. Danse takes one last look at the door to the cryo room before turning. He walks back to the elevator, not another word with Weiss.


	26. Find a New Song and Dance Routine Because the Steps of This One Are Awfully Predictable

Elder Maxson sends an escort to Sanctuary. A Knight of about twenty, she takes off her helmet to speak, tucking it under her arm. Her hair is black and her eyes almost as dark. She says that the Vertibird is waiting for them on the other side of the river. The Elder requires both Paladin Danse and Knight Weiss to report to the Prydwen, as soon as possible.

While the settlers eye her suspiciously, she remains unfazed.

Danse pulls down his rolled shirtsleeves, buttoning the cuff so it won't slide. None of his uniforms are clean at the moment, so he’ll have to enter his power armor in civilian attire. He can certainly change before meeting with the Elder. Weiss is another matter.

“I have not seen Knight Weiss in forty-eight hours.” Danse admits.

He knows losing track of his charge may cause him to fail this mission. To fail the Brotherhood. Though he is no longer sure he quite cares. Everything has gone spectacularly wrong. Weiss returned from the Institute with new eyes but the same smile. Neither are genuine.

In the pit of Danse’s stomach, he knows with certainty that he is a poor judge of character. Weiss is his mistake. And for a while he was a beautiful one, never wilting. Danse realizes, now. it is because Weiss is made of silk, not cellulose. 

Before climbing into his power armor, Danse wraps his hand around the tags hung about his neck. There are three there now. Two of his own, unmarked on the outside but with an embedded holochip. Then Weiss’, stamped metal. It's chipped too, but across the surface he can play his fingers along the lettering: WEISS VISHNU.

The Knight only frowns, telling Danse he should report to the Vertibird once he is ready. She will find Knight Weiss and send for a second airlift once he can be located. Danse does not fight her instructions, nodding curtly and wishing her luck.

“Do you have any idea where he has gone?” she asks. 

Danse honestly does not know. He has not seen Weiss since the vault. Danse is the one who left, stone-footed and somber. Weiss was still sitting on the low bank of stairs, his face in his hands. Listening to his own footsteps, Danse made his way to the elevator, assuming with each step that he would hear Weiss’ quick feet come up behind him. But the sound never came. And the roar of the elevator was deafening. 

And then Weiss did not return to Sanctuary.

And Danse did not look for him.

“There should be a woman here. Her name is Piper Wright. About five-foot-three, one hundred ten pounds, black hair, hazel eyes.” Danse considers how much more he should share. “If you are unable to locate her here in Sanctuary, she has a house in Diamond City. She publishes the local paper. Wright may know more than I do regarding Knight Weiss’ wearabouts.”

“Yes, sir,” the Knight acknowledges before turning, presumably to look for Wright. 

Danse exhales loudly. Taking his pack, he heads in the direction of the Vertibird. He hears the blades spinning to life before he sees it. There are no other passengers on board, just himself and the pilot. He tells her that Knight Keibler will remain behind.

The Elder will not be pleased that he does not know where Weiss is. Not when he now holds the technology to successfully travel to and from the Institute quite literally in his hands. He should tell the Elder. He should tell the Elder everything. 

Under his helmet, Danse’s face flushes. Yes, confession might be best. So they can mitigate whatever damage Danse may have already done to Brotherhood operations. He made a mistake. But that does not mean he cannot atone. But he has made mistakes before. Danse’s mistakes often cost lives. It is only by chance that the heartbeat exchanged has not yet been his own.

He wonders, as the Vertibird ascends, how many lives have been lost because of this particular mistake. None, as far as he can see. But that means very little, the way decisions ripple out. Had he followed Maxson’s initial command to dispose of Weiss, could Danse have done more good in the Commonwealth? 

Perhaps.

\--

Danse reports directly to Maxson, though he is currently in a meeting with Knight-Captain Cade. He waits outside of the clinic area for the two to finish their conversation. While he does not intend to eavesdrop, he does catch snippets of their conversation. There is a bacterial infection aboard the Prydwen. One that appears to be sexually transmitted. Cade has two of his aides working with one of Senior Scribe Neriah’s staff to develop a course of treatment. 

Pulling the curtain, Maxson steps out, acknowledging Danse’s presence. “Follow me, let us talk in private,” he gestures to follow.

Having not wasted time changing into a Brotherhood uniform, Danse is still in his jeans and flannel shirt. It is unbecoming of an officer, but he did not want to delay this conversation. He did not want to skirt the inevitable, lose his nerve. 

Maxson leads Danse to his private quarters, rather than to the command deck. Such has always been the case when discussing Weiss’ operations in the Commonwealth. Weiss is not someone they have ever relied upon for long-term planning. Now, Danse sees the wisdom in Maxson’s decision. Weiss is only auxiliary to the Brotherhood’s plans.

“So, he reached the Institute after all?” Maxson’s eyes look full of hope. Danse does not wish to disappoint him. 

“Yes, the teleporter built at Sanctuary appears to operate. He arrived back in the Commonwealth approximately fifty-two hours ago.” They both sit, Danse resting his hands on the tops of his thighs, fingers curling in the fabric of his jeans. “Without having to activate the teleporter again. His Pipboy now allows for direct access to the Institute.”

The Elder smiles slightly, running his fingers along the rim of his still-empty liquor glass. It is still early in the day. Too early for either of them to be drinking. Danse wonders if whiskey would make this easier. Perhaps.

“Good,” Maxson sounds relieved. 

“Sir?” Danse’s mouth goes dry. “It is my mistake, losing Knight Weiss. He insisted that he must go to the Institute himself.”

“But he is not lost?” Maxson says, “He cannot get so very far from us. Perhaps he can return to the Institute, but we can easily seize control of the teleporter at Sanctuary, if we cannot find him.”

“Of course,” Danse sits up straighter in his chair. “They have not yet disassembled it.”

“Besides, I have already been informed that Knight Weiss has been located. He was not very far from Sanctuary at all.” Maxson smiles again, “I never doubted you, Danse. Him? Yes, of course. But not you.”

“Sir,” Danse tips his jaw down. He does not deserve to be forgiven again. 

“It will be another hour or two before he arrives. The Vertibird has left to retrieve him, but he cited business with the Minutemen that must be brought to completion. I assume you will want to wait for him?”

Danse wants to say he doesn’t care. Or that another soldier should be assigned to stay with Weiss. He wants to say anything that will keep them apart, because he is disgusted with himself. 

“Of course.”

\--

Danse does not go to dinner. Electing instead to stay in his quarters, face down in the mattress, all traces of light are blocked from his vision. He can still hear the hum of the Prydwen, machinery keeping them aloft.

He is not hungry, and would rather spend the time thinking about himself. How is it he was so easily fooled? Because he is lonely? That is not enough, to want hands wrapped around his shoulders, the press of heat against his body, lies that are so sweet, they dissipate on his tongue, impossible to hold in his mouth.

There’s a knock at his door, then a pause. He does not want to answer. He’s warm enough here on his stomach, almost at the edges of sleep. It will be restless though. When he does not answer, the visitor knocks again.

Pushing up off the mattress, he reaches for his shirt, pulling it on before going for the door. “Hello?” He should open his room, but he wishes to be alone.

“Danse?”

It is Weiss.

Cracking open the door, he blocks entry with his body, leaving Weiss outside. “Can I help you, Knight?”

Weiss frowns. “Maxson said we’re free to depart. But ah, shit.” He pulls at the end of his ponytail. “Can we talk? Can I come in?” His weight shifts from one foot to the other.

He shouldn’t let Weiss in. He knows this is another mistake. 

Pulling the door open, Danse steps aside to let Weiss enter. He closes the door with a firm finality. The sound reverberates inside his room, filling up the space where their bodies should walk. Weiss paces, refusing to stand still. 

“You don’t want to leave with me, do you?” Weiss pulls his hands from his pockets, before sticking them right back inside. “I don’t think you want anything to do with me anymore.”

“It was a mistake…” Danse tries, “for us to become intimate.”

Weiss laughs, loudly enough that Maxson will be able to hear it from the next room, if he is there. “We’re not a mistake, Danse. We’re not. Even if you want to end this now,” Weiss steps towards him, holding out one hand to brush against Danse’s cheek, “what we did? Wasn’t a mistake.”

“You lied to me,” Danse growls, his fists tensing. But he does not pull away from Weiss’ touch. Fuck, he wants to lean into it. He wants this to be easy. But it’s not. It’s wretched. 

Weiss shakes his head, “No. To Val...maybe, but not to you.” He shrugs, “I haven’t told you every detail of every case I’ve ever worked on. I haven’t told you about my tenth birthday, or the explicit details of why I was discharged, or how I felt as the bombs fell. There’s just as much you haven’t told me.”

Danse crinkles his nose. He can’t remember his own tenth birthday. “You are a liar.”

“By training, yes. But does that make me a bad person? Are you sure of that?”

Shaking his head, Danse tries to think about this situation clearly. “You protected murderers, thieves, degenerates.”

“Someone had to. Fuck. You...really don’t know what it was like. Some of the people I defended were guilty. Some of them were innocent. Some of them went to prison, and some didn’t. Those categories didn’t all line up perfectly either. That was how the world was,” Weiss sighs. “It’s the way the world still is. And you know it.”

Danse swallows, picking his words carefully. “The world doesn’t dictate who you are.”

“We’re nothing, without the world that shapes us, Danse.” He’s drawn closer again, so they’re chest to chest. If Danse inhales too deeply, they’ll bump together. If he takes a step back, he’ll hit the wall. So he takes a step forward instead, shoving at Weiss’ chest so he topples backwards.

“What is it you want?” Danse snaps. His head is cloudy, full of spun sugar. “What the fuck do you want from me? Haven’t I served your ends already?”

Weiss manages to right himself before crashing to the floor. Without hesitation, he draws himself back to full height, stepping back into Danse and shoving. He’s not as strong as Danse, not nearly, but he is big enough, weighs enough, to put some force into it. 

“What exactly do you think I was doing?” His face twists, “What plan were you a part of, Danse? My only goal was to get you out of here,” he gestures grandly to the Prydwen. “You deserve so much more than this.” He hisses towards the end, trying to bring the volume of his voice back down. 

“I am not here for you to save, Vishnu. I do not need to be saved.”

Weiss opens his mouth, as if to speak, then closes it sharply. This time, instead of leading with his hands, he puts his lips to Danse’s, opening his own mouth. He snakes one hand around Danse’s body, to lace in the back of his hair. “Tell me to stop, then. If you do not want this.”

Heat flares in Danse’s stomach. And he hates himself for it. He hates himself for parting his own lips, for letting himself be pushed back against the wall. Weiss slides his hands away, using them to wrap around Danse’s wrists, pull his arms up and over his head.

“Tell me to stop, if you want me to stop,” his voice rasps as he arches into Danse. Danse jerks his hips forward until they grind against each other.

“Why am I always the one?” Danse asks, “who decides when we stop?”

“Because I’ll never want to,” Weiss taunts. His mouth is wet and hot, prodding his tongue into Danse’s mouth when they’ve had their fill of talking. Danse would be content enough here, with the rising heat of Weiss’ body grafted to his own. 

But as they kiss, Danse wants more, wrenching his hands out of Weiss’ grip, then curling them around Weiss’ hips instead. Pushing him back, back, until they trip into the bed, Vishnu falling first. He smiles when his back hits the mattress. 

“Tell me to stop,” Vishnu tries again.

Danse doesn’t, pulling off his shirt while he keeps his eyes on Vishnu. He’s suddenly quite concerned with the intensity in Vishnu’s eyes. The wrong eyes. They are realistic, but not real. Weiss strips his shirt as well, the static crackling in his hair. His chest is hollow, sunken. Nate’s wedding band nicks back against his chest. Danse wants to tear it off, chuck it out to sea. Because it does nothing but remind him of his insignificance. 

“Tell me to stop,” Danse challenges, pushing off his sweats. He’s only half hard, but he’s sure to get there. 

Vishnu doesn’t look afraid, or concerned, or really anything at all. Though there is a smile on his lips, his eyes still look blank. Perhaps they always will now. Reaching for his fly, he unzips his slacks, pushing them down off his hips to pool on the floor. 

Naked on Danse’s bed, Vishnu should look weak, vulnerable. His limbs are too thin, his skin too greenish, his eyes too dead. But Danse still can’t will himself to be disgusted with Vishnu. The loathing is only ever directed at himself, for wanting this. For wanting still to save him, when Danse refused to be saved in return. 

Vishnu starts bending his knees, pulling himself up and open for Danse. But that’s not what Danse wants. He shoves Vishnu’s legs back down, turning him in the bed so they’ll both fit better and shoving Vishnu’s legs closed. Without second guessing himself, he takes Vishnu’s cock down his throat, letting saliva fill his throat and coat Vishnu’s erection. He sucks twice before pulling back. Vishnu groans when the contact breaks.

Shifting up to straddle Vishnu’s hips, Danse tries to get into the right position. He should bother to slick himself open. It would make this easier, perhaps better. He doesn’t, lining himself up and sinking down on Vishnu’s cock. He grabs at Vishnu’s arms, pulling them up to either side of his head and pressing his weight down to pin him in place. His dark eyes go wide as Danse forces himself down on Vishnu’s cock. It’s rough and almost unwelcome, how the stretch burns and there’s too much friction. Danse tries to stay quiet, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Fuck,” Vishnu gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them slowly. “You’re too fucking stubborn sometimes. But you’re gorgeous.”

Danse tightens his grip around Vishnu’s wrists. Smugly, he hopes it hurts when he bites his nails down into his skin. Raising his hips, he tries to see if this will work, if he’ll be able to slide even though they’re both too dry, whether the friction will make up the difference. 

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” Vishnu says, his eyes closed again and his hips pressing up, however slightly. “Going to hurt, if you’re not careful.”

Saying nothing, Danse sinks back down, trying to relax. And it’s easier this time, as he starts to find his rhythm. His cock bounces against his stomach as he rides Vishnu, refusing to let go of his wrists, to cede control this time. He tries to angle his hips right, to find his prostate himself and grind Vishnu’s cock against it. 

It’s good, it’s really fucking good, to be able to control the pace and angle, yes. But more than that, the image of Vishnu under him, pliant and wanting. Danse can almost believe this is real. Not a long-tattered hope, sputtering out as they die. 

Letting go of Vishnu’s wrists, rests his hands on Vishnu’s chest instead, feeling his lungs flutter as he breathes, the thud of his pulse as it speeds up. Vishnu’s warm hand wraps around his cock, pulling in steady strokes. The other hand curls at Danse’s hip. 

“You’re perfect. I love you.” Vishnu tilts his head back against the pillow, his dark hair stark against the white sheets. “Will always.”

Liar.

\--

When Danse wakes, Vishnu is still in bed with him, their bodies tangled together so they almost fit in the cot. Vishnu was right, he is sore, feeling it when he tries to shift his weight. But it’s fine, not terrible.

They can’t continue on like this.

But Danse feels warm, tenuous, but wanted. And it’s a difficult feeling to discard outright.

Vishnu’s eyes are open. There’s a smile on his lips. 

Someone knocks at Danse’s door. Ice runs through his veins. 

“I’ll stay quiet,” Vishnu soothes, “just see what they want.”

Danse nods, fumbling out of bed to find his shorts and pants. Hastily he pulls them on, carding his fingers through his hair hastily. Vishnu tucks himself low to the bed, the sheet thrown over himself. As long as Danse does not open the door too wide, they should not be found out.

The Squire holds out a packet for Danse to take, “The Elder apologizes he cannot brief you in person!” His voice is high pitched, his fingers fine-boned, “He did not know that you were still aboard! But all the details of your mission are included! Thanks!”

The Squire does not dawdle, half-running away from Danse’s door without another word. Danse opens the envelope once the door is closed. From the bed, Vishnu groans.

“I thought we would be free of this. Guess we should have left when we had the chance.”

“It must be important...if the Elder wishes for us to attend to it specifically.” He scans the documents, understanding immediately why they have been assigned this task. “The scientists working on Liberty Prime require a Mark 28 nuclear bomb.”

Sitting up in bed, Vishnu wraps his arms around his knees. “That sounds like...pretty heavy ordinance.” 

“Yes. They have already located a site that should contain the bomb. It is within the Glowing Sea. And we have more experience with the region-”

Vishnu cuts him off. “I’m not sure we should.”

Danse presses, “It is necessary to Brotherhood operations.” 

“Fine,” Vishnu throws the sheet away, swinging his feet to the floor.


	27. Collapsing

Weiss’ legs feel of lead. His lungs, of tissue paper. 

He keeps pace with Danse as they cross the Glowing Sea, yet again, though this time they head for the Sentinel Site. The heavy gauntlets on his hands make it hard to fidget. Maybe that is for the best. Before they crossed the boundary, he dosed with rad-x. He left the mentats in his bag, untouched.

Volker cleaned his blood just fine, but Weiss can’t bring himself to throw away the tin. His extremities ache for them, even though now he can see with stark clarity. 

There’s a rifle strapped to his back. When he picked up the gun at loadout, Danse smiled softly. It means he’ll do more damage from further away. But it means he has to watch his steady hands pull the trigger. Weiss feels sick to his stomach, but it hasn’t been long enough for the rad-x to wear off.

They march across the open Sea largely undisturbed. Two radscorpions come over the crest of the hill, just as the Site comes into view. But with their rifles, Weiss and Danse fell them before they creep too close. One of them turns to ash, the other remains a corpse. Through the crackle of his armor, distorting his voice, Danse tells Weiss, “Good work.” And they continue on.

It was only a pair of insects. Nothing more. And nothing can survive the conditions here with their wits intact. Weiss just has to keep reminding himself of that. Inside the pyramid of the Sentinel Site, they may find molerats, and more bugs, and maybe feral ghouls, mutated so long ago they’re barely human, with wretched holes in their faces and their minds. It’s more compassionate to kill them, after all. Weiss keeps on telling himself as much. Make it just.

No one inside will be able to look him in the eye. And the dead cannot accuse him of murder.

The timer Weiss has set beeps. Then a moment later, Danse’s beeps as well. Their rad-x has run out. 

“Just a little further,” Danse encourages with a cool detachment, “Once we’re inside the facility, we should be able to remove our helmets briefly.”

Weiss doesn’t respond, only dragging his feet to make sure he does not break into a run. Though they can see the site in the distance, it’s still fifteen or twenty minutes of exposure until they’ll reach the doors. Then, who knows how long it will take to find out how to crack open the facility. But Weiss does not complain. The suit should block most of the rads, though he can hear the geiger counter on his wrist speed up, clicking in his ears.

Last time they did this, Danse fared better than he did. And he’s not about to admit to his weakness, even as it is written across every inch of his skin.

Twenty minutes pass. Weiss feels sick to his stomach. Bile raises in his throat, chunky bits of his last meal scald the inside of his throat. He forces himself to swallow it back down. Vomiting inside his helmet would be brutal. 

He has to keep his eyes open to walk, but he tries to look at nothing at all. But it’s hard now, with his false eyes. 

Mercifully, they reach the door and Danse seems to know exactly how to open it. He pulls a small, dark box from his pack, placing it over the keypad on the blast doors. Punching a single button, the device starts to beep, running through combinations of numbers. When it hits upon the right code, the door starts sliding upwards, letting them inside. 

Weiss doesn’t even bother waiting for the door to seal behind him before ripping of his helmet. It hits the concrete floor with a thud that reverberates down the hall. Well, shit, if someone or something is planning on killing them, it knows where they are now.

Danse keeps his helmet on as Weiss grabs the pills from his bag, taking another rad-x and swallowing without preamble. His hand brushes against metal, but he leaves the mentats aside, telling himself he can do this.

“Radaway?” Weiss asks, once the door is closed. 

Danse nods, pulling off his helmet and holding it under one arm. Weiss puts his hand to his forehead, forgetting it’s still gauntleted and smacking himself in the face. Fuck. He feels feverish, but he can’t tell for sure without taking off his gloves too. And they’re on a time crunch. Even with the blast door sealed, there’s a low hum of radiation. The suit should block out almost all of it, but then they still have to get back out of the Sea. 

Handing over the radaway, Danse looks no worse for the wear. But he doses dutifully, taking both his rad-x and radaway before putting his helmet back on. There isn’t anything much more to say to each other. But Weiss wants to remind him that he’s gorgeous, because it’s true. Also, flattery normally gets him everywhere. But Danse is capable too, shouldering most of the work in combat and getting them here in one piece, though Weiss would always prefer to travel with a larger group.

“Put your helmet back on,” Danse instructs. Weiss doesn’t have it in him to be contrary at this point, still feeling a little radiation-sick, though the radaway is working its magic. He feels more stable, less overheated inside the suit. “Keep your rifle out.”

They encounter molerats first, coming up from the gaps in the foundation, shuffling out from the ventilation systems in loosely distributed packs. They’re vicious little things, probably blind, almost entirely hairless, and with sharp, prominent teeth. They’re not much of a threat with Weiss and and Danse in power armor, though Weiss has to admit they’re troublesome under most conditions. Danse insists they kill them as they appear. Better that than to get swarmed later. There’s logic in Danse’s argument, Weiss supposes. So they put lasers through their fat little bodies as they pop up, only trying to scurry away.

The molerats give way to ghouls, shrieking as they pull themselves up from broken piles on the ground. They claw forward, their limbs twisted, the remnants of their faces rotted, distorted. 

They’re harder to kill, because Weiss can still see the anguish in what remains of their faces. If he looks too closely, he fears he’ll see someone he recognizes. From a veterans’ event for Nate, or on the arm of a socialite at a gallery opening, or passing him on the street as he walked to the office. These are men and women from before the war. The only difference between them and him? He got the sweeter preservation deal, the one that didn’t turn his skin to jerky and his mind to mush. 

When he doesn’t fire fast enough, Danse shouts at him. They have to work together, or they’ll be overwhelmed. A ghoul breaks Danse’s line of fire, throwing itself against Weiss’ armor. But he’s too sturdy, he barely feels it. Danse grabs the ghoul by the neck, yanking it off of Weiss and throwing it against the wall with all his augmented strength. Weiss hears its bones crack on impact, the dry scrape of its skin as it crumples to the ground.

Danse’s mic is turned off, and Weiss can’t see his face. But he swears Danse is breathing heavy. He imagines concern on his face, having seen it enough times in similar situations. After that, Weiss carries his own weight, downing the ghouls as they approach. His accuracy isn’t as good as Danse’s, but that’s to be expected. They are able to stay close together as they wind their way through the halls.

From the terminals, they learn that the blast doors to the bombs are in emergency lockdown. They’ll need a password to get through. Each time they stop to read the terminal entries, Weiss looks for the code. “Your box won’t work?” He asks Danse

“It is only effective on numeric locks with keypads.”

“Let’s hope for that, then,” Weiss says, when he comes up empty again. He can try and guess the password too, but the stakes are high to depend on that.

As they get closer to the center of the compound, they find bodies in robes on the floor. Ones they didn’t shoot. Crouching down, Weiss turns one over, recoiling when he sees her face. “Not ghouls…” her features are shredded down the side of her face, tearing into her heavy cloak. Attacked by a ghoul, for certain. “Children of Atom.” He recognizes the clothes.

“Yes,” Danse replies. “We should move on.”

Weiss stands, curling and uncurling his fists. There were no signs of the Children near the entrance, and the body looks old, old enough it has started to rot where the flesh is torn. He worries there are more, and not all are dead.

Danse drives them forward until they reach a short staircase next to a giant metal door. The bombs must be on the other side. They have seen more corpses, but not live Children of Atom. Perhaps that was the last of them. Perhaps they are all dead. Weiss hopes so.

On the other side of the door should be the control room. Danse leads, opening the door and stepping through. His armor fills the doorway. Weiss can’t see inside.

“Halt!” Danse shouts.

Weiss’ heart stops. Someone is alive on the other side, and they are human. Danse would never hesitate to shoot a ghoul. Would not give them the courtesy of appeal. Danse raises his weapon, “I said HALT!”

Desperately, Weiss wants to be on the other side of the doorway, but Danse still blocks his access. Shit. Whoever it is, maybe Weiss can reason with them? He has to get past. “Danse, let me through.”

Danse takes another step inside, “Keep your weapon drawn, Knight Weiss.”

He doesn’t want to raise his rifle but he does. This has already escalated too much. 

The man inside is bald, his robes in tatters. There are lines around his eyes, through his forehead, but he does not look so very old. Like many Children of Atom, he has undoubtedly been dosing himself with radiation for a long time. He stands without fear, though two men in power armor face him, rifles drawn. 

“State your purpose strangers, you stand on Atom’s hallowed ground.”

Weiss pulls off his helmet, speaking quickly, before Danse can say something and this turns to hell. “We’re looking for bombs, nuclear bombs. Maybe you can help us? My name is Vishnu Weiss, of the Brotherhood of Steel.” He knows this will be simpler without name dropping the Brotherhood, but when they come to retrieve the payload, they’ll be no avoiding it.

The man’s eyes narrow, “I am Brother Henri. I and the Children of Atom have sworn to protect this place until the Great Divide is upon us. None shall enter.”

“We’re on the same side here, Brother Henri,” Weiss urges. “You want the bombs to be used, do you not? To spread His glory to the ends of the earth?” Weiss knows very little about the Children of Atom’s ideology. Only things here and there he has heard in passing. He tries to read Henri’s face, make the necessary adjustments. “I promise you, the bombs will aid in heralding the Great Divide. They will not lay in waste.” His stomach tightens. Being a tool of war does not sit well with him. He can only hope, in the days to come, he can undo the damage he is perpetrating today. 

Brother Henri smiles softly. His vigil comes to an end.

\--

It takes twenty minutes for Danse to set up the beacon so that the Brotherhood will be able to pinpoint the location of the bombs. They exit their power armor, giving their bodies some time to stretch and recover. Weiss takes another radaway and rad-x. Danse only bothers with the preventative measures. 

“You’re sure?” Weiss asks. 

Danse is already poking at the beacon, “I feel fine.”

Weiss paces the floor. Henri waits in the control room, watching them closely as they work. “They won’t kill him, will they?”

“As long as he does not interfere.” Danse does not look up from his task. They remain silent for a while longer. But it is Danse who finally breaks the silence. Weiss expects him only to say that he has completed his work with the transmitter. “What does, ‘none’ mean?”

“What?” Weiss asks.

Drawing back from the transmitter, Danse reaches for his neck, pulling out the chain with his ID tags. He separates out Weiss’ from his own. Weiss’ heart collapses. “On your tag,” he looks at it quite intently, “what does, ‘none’ mean?”

“Oh,” it’s very simple, “that is the line for religion. So if I died in combat, they would know, for...I don’t know, whatever they needed to do. Some religions had specific rites.”

“So yours says ‘none.’”

“Right. Because I don’t believe in God, not really.” From what Weiss has seen, most Wasters don’t put much stock in deities. Sure there are zealots, weird, post apocalyptic cults. But most seem unconcerned with Gods. He never considered Danse would be any different.

If Danse does believe, he doesn’t say, tucking the tags back under his uniform.

“I should remain behind until the pick-up arrives,” Danse says. “You’re free to leave. If you have other matters to which to attend.”

“Right,” Weiss does not argue with him. “I’ll go.”

\--

From the edge of the Glowing Sea, Weiss takes a bird back to the Prydwen. He’ll undoubtedly hear when the payload arrives. He is still unwilling to stray too far from Danse, even if he has made his desire for space well known. 

Aboard the ship he showers quickly, toweling off his hair loosely before changing. The hour is late and they have still not arrived with the bombs. Weiss grows nervous. 

While he can access Danse’s room, it seems too much an invasion of privacy to wait for him inside. So instead he heads for his cot. The one assigned to him months ago, that he rarely uses. On his way from the showers, Scribe Haylen calls out. “Knight! A word?”

Weiss smiles, stepping close to the Scribe. Her hair is tied up loosely, her skin flushed. “Yes?” he asks.

“The Elder is about to call for you...there’s something he’s going to tell you. About Paladin Danse.”

Weiss frowns sharply, “What’s wrong?”

“The data you gave Ingram? From the Institute. Fuck, we can’t talk here. Follow me, look natural.”

Acting natural is an exceedingly easy instruction. Weiss spends much of his time acting at ease, even when he is not. They make their way lower, beneath the decks. He’s somewhat vulnerable, dressed in soft sweats and a thin tee, ready for bed. But at least he has shoes on. They balance themselves on the structural beams, moving deeper into the belly of the ship, until Haylen is satisfied. 

She swallows thickly, “That data was on known escaped synths.”

Nodding, Weiss says, “I know.” He tries not to give too much away. That he was unhappy to make the concession. 

“Weiss...Danse is on that list.”

What.

No.

“What? No.” Weiss shakes his head. It’s a mistake.

“All Brotherhood members have genetic profiles on record. The Institute does the same. I’ve checked, Weiss. They match. Danse is a synth.” She waits for him, her lips slightly parted.

“Why is Maxson going to tell me this?” His hands are cold, his face too. All of his blood has evaporated in his veins. A husk remains behind. He can only hope that when he has to move, his limbs will listen. 

Haylen questions him first. “What does this mean to you? That Danse is a synth?”

Weiss shakes his head, “I...I don’t know,” he doesn’t. “I...does it have to...mean something…”

“You cared about him, didn’t you?” There is anger rising in her voice, even as the volume doesn’t waver. “You loved him. I know. But, does this change that?”

“No,” Weiss doesn’t hesitate. Even if Danse no longer feels the same. If Danse cannot accept who Weiss is, that has no bearing on his own feelings. “I love him. Of course I do...how could I not?”

Haylen bites her bottom lip. “Maxson is going to ask you to kill Danse. He knows so much about Brotherhood operations. And Maxson will never let him go. And he can’t keep Danse here. Not now that we know. Weiss, everyone will know.”

Weiss is still numb. “I love him.”

“I know where he is, probably. A fallback location we discussed,” Haylen continues. “Give me your Pipboy.” She grabs his arm, pulling it towards herself so she can operate it, dropping a map marker for Weiss. “Please,” Haylen urges, “Danse is a good man. I know you think so too. Please, help him.”

“I love him.” Weiss doesn’t know how many times he’ll need to repeat the words in the coming days.


	28. Many Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter has suicidal ideation

Danse stares at the ceiling, a carefully placed web of pipes and conduits, sheltered in wooden beams and steel and concrete. All expertly arranged by humans before the War. Building outposts such as these was standard procedure, fit together by technicians and engineers and tradesmen, who knew exactly how to weave their skills together. Everyone from the architect to the person who fitted the springed doorstop. And everyone in between. Before that, centuries of advancement gave them the tools they needed. Metals, plastics, quick-mix cement. Many hands worked together to build Listening Post Bravo. 

Many hands built Danse.

He feels another oncoming wave of nausea. But it doesn’t start in his stomach anymore. It’s the pain in his chest. He’s seen x-rays, of where the synth component sits inside of degenerate machines. Sliding his hand under his shirt, he feels the spot on his chest. It feels no different than it ever has. He pushes harder against his pectoral, harder still. And there’s nothing other than the endless ache. 

Danse isn’t even sure why he ran, when Haylen warned him, her voice crackling over the comm radio. “You are a synth.”

Maxson will order his elimination. 

Danse looks back to the ceiling. Undoubtedly, the order has already been given. He is certain that he will be found here, if he lives that long. In his pack are six syringes of med-x and an emp grenade. With circumstances as they are, he is not sure which way would effectively end him. Perhaps the syringes would be too kind.

Rolling off the side of the bed, he grabs his pack, rifling inside for the med-x. He lets them splay across his hand. When they threaten to roll off, he clenches his fist around the barrels. Something about the sensation throws him back, and he tosses the chems back into his bag. The canvas is still heavy, so he throws the whole pack against the opposite wall.

Danse lays back in bed. Stares at the ceiling. Tries not to think about all the hands that have touched him, none of which he can remember. 

\--

When Danse wakes, it’s to the sound of the elevator settling. Blinking his eyes open, he sits up, planting his feet on the floor. He wonders if he should put on shoes. Would he prefer to be buried in his boots? They would add extra weight. How many men did Elder Maxson send? He almost laughs to himself. They will not bury him. Either his body will be left to lie in waste, or they will cart it back to the Prydwen for the Scribes to dissect. 

He decides to put his boots on.

There is only one set of footsteps coming from the elevator. Standing, Danse cards his fingers through the front of his hair. Perhaps, had he more time, he would have put on his uniform. As it is, he’s in a tee and jeans he managed to find in a suitcase on the ground floor of the listening post. 

Danse awaits his executioner, his hands at his sides. He will not fight this. He has no will. But this will be a more dignified death than the med-x. At least he may face his end on two feet.

The executioner comes through the open doorway. It is Vishnu, his eyes glassy, his hands shaking. He bangs one open palm against the doorframe and Danse winces. It takes Danse a moment to realize that Vishnu is trying to control his reactions.

“Danse,” he rushes forward.

Danse stands still, ready for his fate. But there is hesitation along his spine. Vishnu has come here to kill him? No, certainly not. The knowledge makes Danse angry. He is ready to pay the price of being built an abomination.

Vishnu takes Danse’s face between his hands, leaning down to kiss him. Danse wraps his hands around Vishnu’s wrists, meaning to pull them away. But instead he merely holds, waiting as Vishnu kisses him, open mouthed and desperate. Vishnu knows. He must. What Danse is. They shouldn’t. They shouldn’t.

It is Vishnu who pulls away first, stroking his thumb over the rise of Danse’s cheekbone.

“Vishnu, you must stop.”

“Is that what you want?” he says, his voice level.

“Vishnu, I am a synth. A machine.”

“I know who you are, Danse.” Vishnu smiles weakly, “I know.”

Danse pulls Vishnu’s hand away, but does not ask him to step back. They remain close, chest to chest, as they speak under the harsh, fluorescent lighting. 

“Elder Maxson will send soldiers after me. I am to be eliminated. You should not be here when they arrive.”

Vishnu frowns, “It’s me, Danse. He sent me.”

“Oh,” Danse still can’t bring himself to step away. He has resigned himself to this. Perhaps there is some sort of justice in Vishnu being the one to end him. Perhaps this is where they were always meant to land. 

Danse locks his eyes with Vishnu’s, watching as his pupils shudder, fade. “You’re high.” It’s not a question.

“I didn’t want to take the Vertibird. The Elder doesn’t know you’re here. I walked straight through.”

“Do it, then,” his breath hitches. “I am ready. And, in a way, I am happy, that it is you.”

“Fucking idiot,” Vishnu curses. “I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to get you somewhere safe.”

Danse doesn’t understand. “I am a danger, Vishnu, to everyone. For all I know, the Institute can hear us. They may already know everything I know. I cannot be allowed...I am not human, Vishnu.”

“Of course you’re human,” Vishnu snaps back. He raises his hands to Danse’s hips, grabbing hold and pushing him back towards the wall. Danse lets him. Danse will let him do anything. Because Vishnu is human, despite his eyes. And Danse is not. 

Danse’s back hits the concrete and Vishnu’s mouth finds his again, this time more demanding, hair falling across his shoulders. He is trying to prove a point, that his body still reacts to Danse’s heat. That Danse’s body reacts too. They are warm, after all. But this is nothing more than simple mechanics. A tool is just that, a tool, no matter how it is used.

Vishnu’s hands snake under his shirt, skimming along Danse’ abdomen, then around to his back, slotting in between Danse’s body and the wall. Vishnu is relentless in his affections. Danse lets his body go slack. If he frustrates Vishnu enough, perhaps he will realize his mistake.

“You don’t want this?” Vishnu asks. 

Danse wishes he could lie. Instead, he keeps his mouth closed.

Vishnu stops kissing him, but keeps his hands in place. “What do you think is best?”

“That I be destroyed. I should have never run. But I was afraid...a coward.”

“You’re not. And you know I can’t do that. I won’t.” Vishnu’s eyes narrow, “Do you really think you’re a monster? After all that you’ve done with your life? Danse...think of all the people you’ve helped. All the good you’ve done. Can you honestly say you wish none of that had transpired?”

“Vishnu...I need to be, made an example of.” With each passing beat of his assembled heart, Danse accepts his position with more finality.

“You are human.” Vishnu growls, “Don’t you understand? Your love, your empathy for your brothers and sisters,” he bites the words, like they are bitter in his mouth, “they are proof of your humanity.”

“Vishnu…”

“I have lost everything,” his grip around Danse’s waist tightens. “I am not losing you too. Even if you no longer want me. I’m not letting you die. I’m not letting everything I love die again!”

Danse feels full of sparking stars, explosions trying to escape. Not all of them are pleasant, most rip through him, threatening to spill out like buckshot against concrete. Vishnu holds him up. “I have to leave the Commonwealth. Vishnu, I can’t stay here. Maxson can’t know.” He finds his feet again, formulating a plan. Weiss’ access to the Institute is too important. He has to stay in the Brotherhood’s good graces.

“Fuck Maxson,” Weiss growls.

“You have to let me go.”

Danse doesn’t mean, ‘you must unwrap your arms from my body. You must step away.’ But Weiss does, leaving a gulf of air between them. It feels bitterly cold.

“I have to,” Danse’s hands shake, “I have to leave the Commonwealth, to protect you.”

“Danse…”

“If I am human...let me protect the man I love.” Danse reaches around his neck, pulling off his holotags, “Give these to the Elder, to prove that you’ve…” he cannot bring himself to say it now. 

Weiss grabs the tags from him, reaching to his own neck. He takes both hands to work the cord open and pull it away from his neck. Working quickly, he slides the gold band off the leather cord, shoving it into his slacks pocket. From Danse’s ball chain, he removes his own metal ID tag, slipping it onto the leather cord instead. Danse watches, mute. 

“Here,” Weiss holds out the leather cord. “Do what you want with it.”

Danse takes the cord from Weiss’ hands, rolling it between his fingers before he decides. “Put it on me.” He holds the tag back out to Weiss. It is difficult for him to look away from Weiss’ neck, where his husband’s ring hung for so long. How easy it was, for Weiss to remove it now. 

Danse is sure.

“Danse-”

“Yes, do it,” he says firmly. 

Weiss takes the cord. He has to step closer to reach around to the back of Danse’s neck, knotting the leather back together. Weiss’ tag settles against Danse’s chest. It feels like nothing at all, lightness and air. And Danse is happy for that. 

“You don’t have to leave.”

“I do,” Danse smiles. 

But they don’t leave right away. His escape can wait, at least for a moment. Danse allows himself to be selfish, to kiss Weiss with the sharp sweetness of finality. They fold themselves into bed, tugging at each other’s clothing until they’re both bare. 

Weiss swings himself over the side of the bed, grabbing his pack to search through. As soon as he finds the lubricant, he drops the bottle into the sheets, choosing instead to focus his energy on pressing his lips to Danse’s skin. He feels hot all over, as he works his mouth lower, lower. Knelt between Danse’s spread thighs, he takes Danse’s cock head between his lips and sucks. Danse tenses at the sensation, trying not to spill on contact. But his head swims with stimulation, the slow drag of Weiss’ fingers on the insides of his thighs. 

Pulling off with a wet noise, Weiss asks, “Can I?”

“Yes,” Danse groans, “Please.”

With deft fingers, Weiss stretches him open. Danse thinks of halting him. He does not need it. What does he need? Not to be treated with gentle kindness. He no longer knows the limits of his body, what it can and cannot endure. His mind drifts to harsher prospects, to being forced open, to being helpless and adrift.

Weiss eases himself in until his hips settle. Until he’s completely sheathed. Danse keeps his arms wrapped around Weiss’ shoulders, preventing him from straying too far. 

“Please, Sir, more.”

Weiss’ expression darkens, but he acquiesces, drawing out almost fully before slamming his hips forward again. Instead of talking, he takes his teeth to Danse’s neck, just above his leather cord, biting down harshly until Danse loses his breath.

Does he even have to breathe?

For now, he doesn’t dare hold the air in his lungs, preferring Weiss to rip the oxygen away. 

By the time they are both sated, they breathe heavily, the heat of their bodies almost insufferable. Danse puts his hand to Weiss’ chest, feeling out his lungs, then his heart. His neck looks strange, bare. 

Weiss rolls onto his side, though the cot barely fits the both of them. Their stomachs are smeared with Danse’s cum. Tucking his body beside Danse’s, Weiss speaks, “I’ll have to leave, soon.”

“I will, too.”

“You don’t have to leave the Commonwealth,” Weiss presses his nose to the teeth marks on Danse’s neck. 

“I can’t jeopardize your mission here. You are the only one who can bring the Institute to justice. No one else has ever been this close.”

Weiss does not respond. What to make of that, Danse does not know.

They dress in silence then put together their packs. There’s a quiet domesticity to it. In a different world, could it have been like this, always? Pulling on their pants and boots. Weiss buttoning his shirt before leaving for his office. Danse...who would Danse be? No one. In another world, he does not exist. A chimera of Institute technologies. He looks at his hands. They gave him fingerprints.

Before the War, they used fingerprints to prove guilt, didn’t they? Danse wonders what crimes are written in his swirled patterns. 

The elevator ride to the surface takes long centuries with their fingers intertwined. Danse assumes he’ll head North, away from the Brotherhood’s base of operations. He doesn’t let himself hope that one day, Weiss may try and find him. So he doesn’t tell Weiss of his plans.

The sun is nearly gone as they step outside. They hear the Vertibird at the same time, Weiss’ hand tensing around Danse’s. He should have expected this. The Elder has never trusted Weiss. Danse should have done more to warn Weiss of this possibility. 

“Go back downstairs,” Weiss snarls through gritted teeth. 

“No,” Danse does not wish to run again. 

“Go. And stay. I can fix this. But not with you here.”

“Weiss,” Danse starts. It is too late, Maxson has already seen them. His stride is sure as he approaches. Alone.

“Let me fix this.”

Danse untangles his fingers from Weiss, and though he takes a step back, he refuses to run. He’s there from Weiss’ first open, false smile, sweet words laced with promises no one could well keep, to the last gasp of his plea.

If Maxson is human himself, he must know that Danse is the best among them. He must be spared.

If Maxson ever loved Danse at all, they will never speak of this again.

Danse stands stone-still and brittle until long after the Vertibird leaves.


	29. Follow the Illuminated Walkways To Your Final Resting Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes canonical character death (as part of a modified version of the quest "Rocket's Red Glare") and discussion of assisted suicide means (but not really any impulse to act upon it, it's only discussed as an option)

In the darkness of the settlement, the orange embers at the tips of their cigarettes look false. Like little LEDs cutting through the night. Or the glow of neon. The smoldering ends are brighter than the stars. But the light pollution from the security spotlights behind them mean that Weiss and Preston can still see where they’re going, at least for a few steps more.

Weiss knows now that the birds can hear them, see them. The scientists at the Institute showed him how. His own son explained the means by which he had been spying on Weiss for so long. But finding Shaun had been his quest alone. “Father” had never even thought to directly interfere in what his father did. 

But Weiss doesn’t fear the birds. Not yet, at least. For now, let Shaun hear everything they say. Watch their every movement. None of it concerns him. Well, if it does, Weiss’ current plan will only serve to the Institute’s advantage. 

“Are you sure about this?” Preston asks, holding his cigarette between two fingers and his thumb. “Maybe there’s another way?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Weiss admits. “Thought about just getting them to fucking leave the Commonwealth. But what then? They terrorize someone else? They grow stronger, as hoard technology for themselves? Raid other people’s farmsteads and cities in the name of progress? No. We can’t let them out of this.” He puts his cigarette out under his boot, bending over to pick up the butt before lighting his next one. “And we can’t let them use Liberty Prime.”

Preston shakes his head. “I know. I heard about what it was able to do down in the Capital, what, ten years ago? Really blew a new one in that ‘Enclave.’ Could probably do the same to the Institute.”

“But that’s not how we win this, right? We don’t make a better world with destruction. Look what we already did,” he gestures out into the darkness of the Commonwealth. 

“And what we’re doing is different? People are going to die, Vishnu.” He says it as if he doesn’t realize he’s ended many lives already. But Preston is not so naive, he knows. All of this? A means to an end. That is all. Preston sighs, “Just as long as you’ve thought this through.”

Weiss pulls at the end of his ponytail. “I know. I know. But,” there is always an argument at the tip of his tongue. This one is bitter, so he spits it out. “The Brotherhood of Steel has existed for a long time. You and me, Preston? We’re just two men. It’s not as if we have some special claim to wisdom. But do I believe that the Minutemen are a better choice for the Commonwealth? Hell, for the world? Yeah. I do. We can’t let the Brotherhood go on…” He has one last card to play. “Their Elder? Maxson? He’s the last of a dynasty. We have to cut off the Brotherhood’s head. We have to make sure Maxson dies. Or your children’s children are going to be standing where we are now, asking these same questions. Hell, if humanity even makes it that far.”

Preston grunts in response, holding out his hand for Weiss to pass the pack of cigarettes. “We’ll do this. We’ll get it done. Only,” Preston hesitates, “I wish it didn’t hurt like this.”

“You can still back out,” Weiss offers. And he means it. Preston doesn’t have to go down with him. 

“Nah, not in a million years,” Preston smiles. “I’ve got my own demons already. Worth it though, to help the citizens of the Commonwealth.”

\--

They get the charges from Tinker Tom, shoving them into their packs without looking at them too closely. Weiss takes two, Preston the other two. Tink draws them a diagram on the chalkboard of where they should be set along the frame of the Prydwen. His fingers turn ash-gray with the dust.

Otherwise, the Railroad HQ is bustling, agents pushing past Weiss and Preston with little concern for why they’re there. With work still left to do, always left to do, they can’t be bothered with men only half-committed to their cause. But Tink knows Weiss is good for this mission. Desdemona trusts them too. At least enough to risk their asses so her people don’t have to. She circles around them like a hawk, making sure they’re attentive to Tink’s looping instructions. 

Before they go, Tink wants to show them a couple of new toys. Real good stock if they could use it. It’ll cost them caps, he’s gotta have a way to buy more mats, but he’ll give them a good deal. 

Weiss tells Preston to select out what they can use. Cost isn’t a deterrent. 

Doctor Carrington pulls Weiss aside before Preston can finish, asking if he might have a word. Weiss follows, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I can’t help but notice that you’ve resumed your chem use,” he states quite plainly. Their corner of the catacombs affords them some privacy, but Carrington still keeps his voice low.

Weiss doesn’t bother lying. Not to a man he’ll likely never see again. “Observant.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Carrington voices his concerns. “You’re taking this suicide mission because you wish to die. Well, I won’t have you taking down the Railroad in the process.”

Weiss has never liked Carrington’s voice. That here, 200 years in the future, a man can speak with his mother’s intonation, her vowels and lilt, when he himself never could. How dare Carrington speak Weiss’ mother’s English? One of three she had to learn. Because the one she spoke with her sisters around the cooking stove wasn’t “proper,” too much Hindi and French woven in between; the one she spoke in grade school made her sound like a distant Queen who released them like an aching ibis in 1962, its wings clipped by colonialism for another hundred years; the one she learned in America, so she could blend in with the students at university, who would tease her about the other accents weighing down her uvula. 

Weiss can only speak the last, Carrington the second. 

Not that Weiss would ever make an appeal to some ghost of “authenticity.” All syllables are arbitrary, no matter how they are arranged.

He only really knows one word of Hindi, that his grandmother teased him with. She knew more words than that, but never fed them to Weiss, who had fair skin and big curls and whose hair was auburn-brown, like his father’s, until after he turned thirteen. His mother’s sister saved a lock of his hair to remind him. She made him feel guilty for standing in the sun too long, even though he never burnt, unlike his father who would be next to him in the yard, turning bright red over his cheeks, to the line of his beard, bleached near-blond in the summer.

“Don’t worry,” Weiss soothes, though he knows Carrington cares little for niceties. 

Carrington passes him a folded paper sachet. Weiss squeezes it gently, feeling four pills inside. “If you are captured,” Carrington explains, “These will let you end your life. I am not saying you must. I am only giving you the option.”

Weiss turns the packet over in his hand, “Four?”

“Given your weight, it is likely you will need two. Your companion may only need one, but better to be prepared.”

“Thank you,” Weiss swings his pack around so he can tuck the pills inside. The Brotherhood will not take them alive. Of that much, he is certain. Even if they do, he’ll never tell them anything worth hearing.

They should know by now that he is an unreliable narrator.

\--

Weiss signals for a Brotherhood Vertibird to pick them up, just on the other side of the bridge to Sanctuary. The charges are in their packs. Two for him, two for Preston. He’s split up Carrington’s failsafe too. Preston took his half without argument, keeping them in his chest pocket. 

There shouldn’t be much resistance, as long as they don’t act suspicious. Weiss has never taken Preston to the Prydwen before, but the Brotherhood have certainly seen them together. The Minutemen are a known quantity in the Commonwealth, though Weiss isn’t sure anyone in the Brotherhood could match Preston’s name to his face.

They chat idly on the ride over, about settlement supply lines. Weiss has been asked, several times, to divert resources from Minutemen farms to Boston Airport. He lets the suggestion that this trip is to speak with the Elder about the possibility hang in the air. Maybe the pilot hears them, maybe not. It’s only her job to bring the Knight and his companion from point A to point B. But Weiss likes to think the added layer of deception will help them, down the line.

There’s no one in particular to greet them when they arrive. Weiss offers to show Preston around, then asks the first Squire he sees if he can inform the Elder that they would like to meet with him. 

Once the boy has darted off, Preston says, “I didn’t know there were so many children.”

“I know,” Weiss keeps his voice steady, even. He’s tried not to think of the Squires. Child soldiers who Maxson finds indispensable. Danse never liked having them aboard, told Weiss as much. But Maxson insists that they are to be exposed as young as possible to what the Order entails. Just as he was.

“You can still leave. I should have told you.”

Preston clenches his jaw. The hesitation in his eyes is apparent, flickering between the ground and where the Squire disappeared behind the door. “Why don’t you give me that tour.”

They walk without drawing attention to themselves. Weiss assumes Preston gets a good enough lay of the Prydwen to know how to get his two charges in position. They’ll spend the night, then, in the morning, as the first shift eats their breakfast, place the charges. Deacon will be waiting just outside the blast radius. The only piece that worries Weiss now is the pilot. Whether he or she would rather face death, crashing them into the Wasteland below, rather than play cooperative hostage. 

It takes nearly an hour before Maxson sends someone to collect them, right in the middle of dinner. Just their luck, dinner sucks, everything is either stale or on the cusp of turning. So Maxson might be particularly happy to see Weiss and Preston, and the gardens they control.

\--

They meet Maxson on the command deck.

If Maxson is still angry about Danse, his face doesn’t show it. He looks just the same as ever, his long coat almost reaching the floor, the trim of his beard ever so slightly uneven. He doesn’t smile as they enter. But he does nod at Weiss, calling him Knight.

“Preston Garvey of the Minutemen; Elder Maxson of the Brotherhood of Steel,” Weiss makes introductions, waiting for both men to shake hands. They do, it’s cordial. Not much information is exchanged after that. Both Maxson and Preston are polite, with Preston giving truthful answers. This time tomorrow, none of this will matter. So whatever promises they make? Can be broken. They part on amicable terms and with a scheduled meeting in the morning with the Brotherhood quartermaster. 

Arrangements are made for Preston to be allocated a cot for the night before Maxson asks for a word alone with Weiss. Whatever anxiety has been bubbling in Weiss’ stomach bursts. He smiles as brightly as he can, telling Preston he’ll see him in the morning at breakfast.

“I’ve heard you like scotch?” Maxson asks.

Danse must have told him. “I do.”

“Let’s head to my quarters then. Lancer-Captain Kells doesn’t appreciate it when I drink in public.” 

Weiss smiles, happily following Maxson from the command deck and to his room. Once inside, he absentmindedly unbuttons the top of his shirt while Maxson shucks his coat. Weiss stays standing while Maxson pours their drinks. He hasn’t seen proper glassware since waking up, but Maxson has a full set, decanter and all.

Maxson doesn’t offer a toast, on Weiss his glass, drinking his own down quickly before refilling. Weiss can’t help but laugh. “No wonder there’s so little left.”

Glaring, Maxson sips his next glass, rather than chugging it like a damn barbarian. “Sit,” he motions to one of two chairs.

Weiss sits, crossing his leg so that one ankle rests on the top of his opposite thigh. He can lean forward a bit like this, resting his drink on his leg. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Given recent changes in the command structure. I’m short a Paladin.”

Dryly, Weiss responds, “Yes, you are.”

“I'll be promoting you to the position.”

Weiss laughs, unable to believe what he is hearing. “You trust me about as far as you could throw me.”

“True,” Maxson admits. “But you’ve done a great service for the Brotherhood. Brokering this exchange with the Minutemen is yet another example of how much you’ve contributed.”

“So what?” Weiss leans back in his chair. “Seriously though, what do you get out of this?”

“My men and women already admire you a great deal. Even those who have not worked with you directly express confidence in your abilities,” Maxson rattles.

“Unfounded, I assure you,” Weiss mocks humility. 

Shaking his head, Maxson makes his final statement. “It is already done, Paladin Weiss. I will announce as much tomorrow. It will be good for morale.”

Weiss cannot say he is displeased. If only because his tenure will be so brief.

\--

Weiss hums to himself as he walks along the catwalk, his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks. Preston is a step behind him, in charge of the two charges furthest from the command deck. They’ll have to be quick about this, before it becomes obvious they won’t be making it to breakfast.

Along the long channel, they can keep their eyes on each other as they plant the charges to the Prydwen frame. Weiss asks Preston, loud enough that he would have to be an idiot if he had something to hide, what he thinks of the Elder.

“Awful young. It’s a lot of responsibility.” Preston clicks his second charge into place.

Weiss finishes fastening his as well. “I couldn’t do it. Not at his age. Well,” they both start walking back towards the stairs, not bothering to hide their footfalls. “I hope breakfast is better than dinner was.”

But they don’t go to the mess, detouring back out to the flight deck. Preston boards the first Vertibird, his hand in his bag, undoubtedly wrapped around the grip of his pistol. 

A female Squire skids by, a girl of no more than ten years, and Weiss can’t help but reach for her. He assumes she’s going to scream, but he drags her into the Bird, harshly whispering in her ear, “Be quiet.” He wraps his arm over her mouth, but she’s too scared to fight, going limp in his arms. She’s so light.

“Go, now,” Preston tells the pilot, his 10mm at their temple. “And don’t reach for that radio. Keep your hands on the steering.”

Nodding, the Vertibird pilot uncouples the chopper and starts pulling away from the Prydwen. Their voice is unsteady, “We haven’t been cleared for departure. I haven’t radioed.”

“Don’t,” Preston tells him. “We’ll be fine. They won’t shoot,” the edge leaves his voice. Instead, he sounds like he speaking to a spooked radstag.

Weiss turns his attention back to the girl in his arms. “I’ll let go of you now, okay? You’ll be good.”

She doesn’t respond, but Weiss doesn’t expect her to. The two of them are alone in the back of the Bird. Preston is squeezed up front with the pilot, keeping them on course to Deacon and the rendezvous point. 

Weiss lets his arms go slack, not releasing her entirely, but letting her squirm. Defiantly, she turns around, looking him straight in the face. “Knight! What are we doing? Uh, sir!”

“It’s okay,” at least she isn’t screaming. 

“No it’s not! Who is that up front?”

“He’s a friend,” Weiss explains.

“No! He’s not,” she remains calm. “I’m not supposed to leave the Prydwen without orders. And why is he-”

“Vishnu, why is she here?” Preston can’t risk looking back. Given how loud the Vertibird is, Weiss doubts that he can hear all the details of Weiss’ conversation with the girl.

“She was running past me...I thought.”

Her dark eyes hold to Weiss’, refusing to look away.

“We’re over the rendezvous!” Preston shouts, “Take us down.”

“Fuck….fuck,” Weiss can barely hear the pilot curse.

From his back pocket, Weiss grabs the red handkerchief, tossing it out the side of the Vertibird to signal to Deacon below that it’s them. Only seconds elapse. Deacon doesn’t wait for them to hit the ground before firing off the detonator.

The explosion is loud, all consuming. Like a meteor hitting the earth. Something like that. It’s louder than anything Weiss has ever heard. No, the nuclear blast that ended his world was this loud. It must have been, though he can barely remember it. He almost remembers what it looked like, though he was staring at Nate when it happened, waiting for the elevator hydraulics to take them down to the vault. Nate had Shaun pressed against his chest, screaming with his tiny lungs.

The Squire screams, abject and terrified. She must be afraid of the sound first, covering her ears. But then she sees it, as the pilot curses again and swings the Vertibird sharply. The force of the explosion knocks them slightly off balance in the air. And they let go of the controls too. Maybe, they give up on landing them safely. Maybe they’re not afraid to die, thinking they’ll be remembered as a hero, if they kill the men who killed the Elder.

And when the girl realizes what has really happened, that the airship went up in flames, then went down in flames, her screaming changes.

“Mama! Mama!”

Over and over. High pitched and terrified. She knows. She knows what Weiss has done. Her first instinct is to dart for the open side of the Vertibird, to throw herself out. They’re not very far from the ground now, and the pilot has righted the Bird, though they’re screaming unintelligibly too. Weiss doesn’t bother listening to them. Instead, he focuses on grabbing the Squire before she can throw herself out of the helicopter. Holding her back, Weiss doesn’t try to comfort her. She’s a screaming, flailing, trying to break his grip. She can’t, of course, she’s too small. If she wants to hurt him once they’re grounded, Weiss will let her, but he intends to see her to safety.

The pilot sets them down. Deacon rushes up to the pilot’s side of the Vertibird, his pistol drawn to take over from Preston. Weiss lets go of the Squire. She doesn’t run, but she doesn’t stop screaming either.

“So this is how it’s going to be,” Preston explains to the pilot. “I’m going to let you run, okay? You’ve kept your end of the deal.”

“Fuck me,” the pilot says, “what deal? Holy shit.”

“Just, go,” Preston doesn’t want to kill them. This mission was to disrupt Brotherhood stability, in the Commonwealth and beyond. They don’t have an investment in this particular person, whether they live or die.

“How do I know you won’t just shoot me in the back?”

“Because I could shoot you right now!” Preston drops his volume, “Just go.”

This time the pilot doesn’t ask more questions. They’ve got a pistol on his hip, They’ll do alright in the Wastes. Maybe find some raiders to join up with. Or settle down with a spouse and kid. Who even knows? Weiss doesn’t even really care.

He does care about the sobbing girl on the ground. The one he snatched without thinking this through. She still calls, “mama, mama.”

“Vishnu, who is she?” Preston asks.

“I don’t know,” Weiss shakes his head. “I just...thought if I could save her. That would be a good thing. One good thing.”

Preston covers his face with his hand, “We can take her back to Sanctuary. I’m sure someone will be able to look after her.”

Something Preston says stirs sadness into anger in the girl. She pushes herself up off the ground, on unsteady feet. “You killed them! You killed everyone!”

Weiss turns back to face her, his hands in his pockets. “I did,” he won’t lie to her. She saw with her own eyes.

“You’re bad men! Everyone said you were good! That you were helping us! But they were wrong!” she snarls.

Reaching into his bag, Weiss pulls out his laser pistol. He checks that it’s loaded. The girl’s eyes go wide, afraid. He doesn’t offer comfort. Instead, he offers his pistol, grip first. “Shoot me, then.” 

She doesn’t hesitate, reaching out with her right hand to grab the gun, yanking it away from Weiss and aiming at his chest. She doesn’t hesitate pulling the trigger either. 

Once.

She hits him. And the pain is a sharp bloom in Weiss’ chest, scorching through his shirt, then his skin. He drops to his knees, breathing heavily and waiting for the second shot. She was so confident in her decision to kill him. He expects twenty-nine shots more. He expects her to empty the pistol into his face. But she doesn’t, dropping it into the dirt instead.

Like all the other Squires, she’s a child soldier. She’s been trained to shoot. But she hasn’t yet killed. It hasn’t been asked of her. And now, it won’t be.


	30. Only a Fool Gives it Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone, for all your support throughout this process! For every kudo and comment or even just taking the time to read. Thank you.

Danse spends his days alone. Much of that time, he spends reading. He starts with catalogues about the equipment installed at the Listening Post. None of it makes any sense at all. But he traces over the words, as if learning about communications technologies will teach him something about himself.

After he’s read the manuals, cover to cover, he finds other books, tucked away in suitcases, in boxes. Someone tried to wait out the end of the world here. Their skeleton is tucked into one corner of the room. Danse moves it into the hallway, where he doesn’t have to face it every day.

He reads a book called “Crime and Punishment.” He thinks the title is fitting, for him, at least. But he doesn’t understand Raskolnikov at all. How he could ever think himself superior, when quite clearly, he is deranged. It takes Danse a long time to get through the book. In a way, it makes less sense than the manuals did.

Danse made a promise, to Vishnu, to stay. To wait. But days pass, and Vishnu doesn’t return. 

It takes more than a week for Danse to hear the elevator sputter on again. He puts his boots on. Because either Elder Maxson has changed his mind, or Vishnu has returned. He tries to arrange his hair, but there’s no mirror. Why it matters, he’s not sure.

But it’s neither the Brotherhood, nor Vishnu. It’s Piper Wright, dressed in combat armor and dirt smeared across her face. She smiles at him when she arrives, dropping her shoulders and saying, “Good.”

Vishnu asked her to check on him, make sure there is nothing that he needs. Danse doesn’t think he deserves such kindness. He and Wright are not friends. Though she and Vishnu are something.

She strips out of her armor, stretching her hands above her head. Having nothing else to say, Danse asks her about the book, if she’s ever seen it before.

“Yep, there are a lot of copies. Not exactly light reading, though,” she scrunches her nose. “I could bring you more books, if you want.”

Danse knows what that means. He’ll be waiting here, a long time.

“Where is Vishnu?” he asks.

Wright clicks her tongue. “He’s very busy. He’d come himself, otherwise. Needs a few more days to plan, but he was worried.”

“You know about me, then?” Danse isn’t sure he wants to ask.

Dropping her eyes, Wright admits, “Yes.”

“What do you think of it?”

“Of synths?” Wright asks, “I’m not sure anymore.” Biting her bottom lip, she seems to consider quite deeply what she’s about to share. “The Institute, it’s not right of them to use synths to infiltrate our communities. To kidnap humans, replace them with shells, spies. They’re killing people. But...Danse, do you know? Do you know if you...replaced someone else? Or did you escape?”

Danse hasn’t thought on it very long. If there was another Danse, or if he is a synth designed wholesale by the Institute. In either case, he was never human. He doesn’t want to think about it. Because it doesn’t make one bit of difference. 

“No,” Danse says, “I don’t think...I think I was always like this.” And his chest feels lighter when he says it out loud. Like it’s a truth he can’t rightly know. There’s no memory there, to corroborate his feeling. “I think, this is me.”

Wright frowns, but her eyes are soft, “Oh, Danse.”

She sits with him awhile longer, but they have little to say to each other. Danse doesn’t mind. She doesn’t make him uncomfortable, at least, not anymore. Before she leaves, she takes the time to hug him, her small frame pressed against him.

The next morning, he hears the explosion. Whatever it is, it is distant. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Dostoyevsky in his lap. The whole planet has shifted, and Danse doesn’t know why. Or how.

Wright returns two days later with a pack full of books Danse didn’t ask for, and four boxes of snack cakes. They each eat one together, before Danse asks. “Where is Vishnu?”

Frowning, she responds, “Injured.” But doesn’t offer anything more.

“There was an explosion of some force? Was that how-”

She cuts him off, “He should tell you, himself.”

Soon after, she leaves.

Danse lays by himself in bed, running his hands over his body. He wonders how much time was spent on each decision. If he was designed by committee, or if it was random, or the vision of one person. Humans should not play at God like this. They shouldn’t. But they live in a world of little blasphemies already. What is one more? What is Danse?

Six days after the explosion, the elevator hums again. Danse has been reading “Manhattan Transfer.” He likes it a great deal more than “Crime and Punishment,” even if the latter is more decadent. There’s something about the press of many bodies he finds terrifying and wonderful. 

This time, it is Vishnu, dressed in a loose tee and jeans. His hair has been cut short. As he shifts in the doorway, Danse can make out the outline of bandages still wrapped around his chest. 

Danse watches him, as he watches Danse. 

“I heard an explosion.”

It is the most important thing.

“I,” Vishnu swallows, “I detonated explosives aboard the Prydwen. I killed the Elder and all members of the Brotherhood who were aboard.” This is confession. Danse is not a worthy man to hear it. “I came, to tell you myself.”

Danse can’t look away, but he cannot speak either. His tongue has shriveled, Died. Instead he thinks of the things he will carry with him, when he leaves the Listening Post. What will he need to survive? He cannot yet consider where he would go. North, perhaps. Away from what he knows. 

When he’s decided, he can finally speak again, with a different tongue. “I should kill you.”

“If you’d like,” Vishnu still hasn’t moved from the doorway, one hand against the frame. “I haven’t done anything about the Institute yet. So, if you do, make sure my Pipboy gets to someone responsible. I’d suggest Preston. But I’m not really in a position to make demands.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Danse keeps his eyes on Vishnu’s. “You’d like for me to be the one who kills you?”

“Didn’t you say the same of yourself, just weeks ago?”

Vishnu will always be able to turn Danse’s words against him. “I suppose I did.”

“So, what is it going to be, Danse?”

Even now, he cannot do it. He cannot fulfil his duty to the Brotherhood, his duty to Vishnu, his duty to humanity. He’s only numb, and alone. “I think you should go.”

“And should I come back?”

Danse doesn’t know. “If you’d like.”

Pushing away from the doorway, Vishnu heads back to the elevator, his footfall heavy on the concrete.

Danse isn’t sure how much time passes before he picks up his bag. Shoving in supplies, he leaves all of Piper’s books behind. Just water, food, stimpaks. Things that will keep Danse moving forward. 

Riding the elevator back to the surface is an odd sensation, like breaking through sediment that he has caked upon his skin like armor. 

When the day is sunny, bright, and slightly warm, he’s so shocked he almost hits the down arrow again. As if he should start this journey on a more sullen day. That would be fitting, wouldn’t it?

But his feet carry him forward, out of the Listening Post and into the Wasteland. He has very little to fear, as long as he avoids unnecessary encounters. 

He’s supposed to head North. That was what he decided. But he doesn’t. He knows where he’s going, but he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want to travel to Sanctuary. He just wants to fade out of existence. Maybe contribute his molecules to a better organism. He catches himself, because he’s made of different materials. Odd, so odd, that he keeps forgetting.

Deliberately, he’s slow, stopping often to rest, to watch radstags skitter as they run, the breeze between the fraying grasses. Nothing about the world looks any different now. He’s too far from the airport to miss the Prydwen. But when he looks to the East, he feels empty. Not sad. Just dull. He wonders about the edges of his humanity again. 

By the time he reaches the edges of the settlement, he knows for certain he doesn’t actually have to eat or drink. Or sleep. Though his bones feel weary, they haven’t given up, ground themselves into dust. He knows he’s stronger than he’s ever really thought. 

Marcy Long sees him first, her mouth twisting downward. She wipes her hands in her shirt, turning away without a word. Danse stands numb on the perimeter, still to the outside of the turrets. Long minutes pass, and Danse wonders now if she even saw him. But she must have.

Danse considers leaving. Perhaps, Vishnu isn’t here, having already turned towards Diamond City, of the Institute, or anything really. Anywhere.

But Vishnu does emerge from behind the garage, his hands covered in dirt. He wipes them against his pant legs as he walks. There’s no smile, but as he approaches Danse, his posture straightens out.

“Danse?”

“What are you doing?”

Vishnu looks down at his dirty hands, “Planting crops for the Spring. They more we can get down this week, the better.”

“Do you know anything at all about agriculture?”

“Not a thing,” Vishnu admits, “I only do what they tell me.”

Danse frowns. “I don’t know anything either.”

“Talking about tatos, that’s not why you’re here,” Vishnu pushes. “Why are you here?” It’s only been days since they parted.

“Why,” Danse covers his face with his hands, “did you kill them?”

Vishnu frowns. “Do you think their hands were clean? They killed people, Danse. You’ve killed people. I’ve...this is just how this world works. And I hate it. I hate every moment of it. But what other option do I have?” Vishnu sighs, “Give up?”

“This was a mistake...from the start,” Danse admits. They’ve made no progress.

“Never.” Vishnu’s hands are shaking, he presses them against his pants to still them.

Danse shakes his head, he still finds it difficult to lie. “I can never forgive you. But you must know that already.”

“I do,” Vishnu admits.

“But I still love you.”

Vishnu laughs, but the sound is without transparent happiness. “I don’t think either of us can escape that. This, each other. But you’re going to try, right? You’re going to try and leave. This isn’t our last goodbye, is it? Because neither of us are as good or terrible as we think we are.”

“Aren’t you going to try and make me stay?” Danse tries not to sound too hopeful.

“Of course I am. Every day. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Danse leans forward, pressing his lips to Vishnu’s. The sound of the turrets, scanning from side to side, breaks up the monotony of the Wasteland. He and Vishnu have built many things. And, perhaps, destroyed more. They can only hope it is service to a better world tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.


End file.
